


Enslaved

by Pinkninja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Background Relationships, Character Development, Cultural Differences, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Flawed characters, Gen, Hermione Granger-centric, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Master/Slave, Mystery, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Slavery, breaking past brainwashing and propaganda, despite the tags this is a mostly hopeful story, seriously no one gets out of this squeaky clean, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-01 22:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkninja/pseuds/Pinkninja
Summary: As Head Slave, Hermione runs the House of Weasley, a great accomplishment for a Mudblood. But a werewolf slave and shadowy figures from her past threaten the status quo.





	1. Chapter 1

The slave’s entrance to the family Malfoy’s Manor was black, hidden and functional, much unlike the lavish front entrance, long hedges leading to a doorway overlaid with gold, inscribed with Latin phrases and silver carvings of venomous lizards.

Slave Hermione Granger had only entered through the grand entrance once before, ghosting the footsteps of her former Lord Master. Now, though, Hermione knocked at the slave’s entrance and waited until a scrawny slave boy younger than herself opened the door. A black band of leather encircled the boy’s neck, much simpler than the thin black leather at the base of her own neck, red thread sewn around the edges leading to a red and gold clasp.

The young slave boy’s eyes widened as they locked onto her high status collar. ‘W-what do you want?’ he stuttered.

‘I am Hermione Granger of the family Weasley. My Lord Master wishes to buy from Lord Malfoy’s stock.’

The boy nodded quickly and stepped aside to allow her entrance. The formalities dealt with, Hermione smiled at the nervous slave.

‘I would understand if you didn’t want to tell Lord Malfoy yourself.’ She spoke soothingly. ‘Is there a place I can wait for him?’

The boy nodded again. ‘Master is in his study, you could kneel in the hall…’ he trailed off and glanced at Hermione.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ Hermione smiled again and the boy flushed at the gratitude.

He led the Weasley slave through the kitchen in the slave wing, bustling with other slaves and the occasional grubby house-elf. The instant the two stepped through the large double doors at the end, Hermione knew she had entered the Lord’s manor. Silencing charms ensured the grandiose hall was still and foreboding.

‘This way.’ The boy muttered quietly and scurried up the large staircase.

Hermione followed confidently. Though her current Master’s home is more humble, she was used to the lavish declarations of wealth from her last Master.

‘Wait here.’ The slave instructed, stopping outside an ornately carved door. He hesitated for a long moment then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Stay kneeling, even though he’s not here yet.’

Hermione didn’t need the advice, though she followed it anyway, dropping to her knees outside the door, sitting comfortably on her heels, her hands folded in her lap in the appropriate position of respect while visiting a Lord. Her eyes were lowered even though her head wasn’t bowed, and she noticed the slave boy disappear back the down the stairs.

Hermione waited patiently for over a quarter of an hour until she heard heavy-falling footsteps approaching her. Expensive leather shoes stopped in front of her, belonging to a young man, probably her own age, with slicked back blond hair and an arrogant stance.

‘You’re not one of mine.’ He stated. Hermione did not speak as she had not been directly addressed, and she had been trained better than that. ‘Did Father give you to me as an early birthday present?’

A cold long finger touched the side of her chin and angled her neck to reveal the family crest on the clasp of her collar.

‘Are you a Weasley prize, slave?’ the man sneered.

‘Yes, Lord.’ Hermione said quietly. ‘I have come on behalf of my Lord Master to do business with the Head of the House.’

‘You expect me to believe the Weasley’s can afford my Father’s stock?’ the young man sneered, confirming himself to be Draco Malfoy, son of the Lord.

He curved his lips slowly, observing the kneeling woman before him. ‘I also don’t believe they could afford such a pretty pleasure slave… What’s your pedigree?’

Hermione lowered her eyes again as Draco leant against the opposite wall. ‘I am a Mudblood, sir.’

‘Ah, that explains it then.’ Draco scrutinized her over his crossed arms. ‘Go on then, tell me your providence.’

Hermione had long since memorized her providence, the documentation describing her previous owners, prices and training.

‘I was sold by my Muggle parents at the age of six when I displayed magical awareness. At nine I was purchased from the Ministry by the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. My Lord Masters trained me well, and I became the personal property of my Lord Master Sirius Black at age fourteen. In accordance to his Will, after his death, I was gifted to the noble house of Weasley and assigned to my Lord Master Ronald Weasley.’

‘That slimy git?’ Draco spat. He stalked back over to her and reached out a hand to touch her hair.

The silver head of a black cane in the shape of a hissing snake hit sharply on Draco’s outstretched hand. He winced and snatched it back quickly.

‘Now, now, Draco.’ A voice as smooth and deceptive as an invisibility cloak said. ‘What have I told you about playing with other people’s toys?’

Draco begrudgingly took a step backwards and stalked down the hall. Hermione raised her eyes to take in the tall form of Lucius Malfoy.

‘And what is your business here?’ he questioned.

‘My Lord Master wishes to buy from your stables.’ Hermione stated clearly.

‘And your… Lord Master cannot do so himself?’ Lucius sneered.

‘I am his chosen representative and entirely capable of handling the transactions.’

Lucius nodded and waved a hand impatiently. ‘Well stand up then, let’s see how capable you are.’

Hermione stood gracefully and linked her hands behind her back, chin raised under Lucius’ scrutiny.

‘You must be the Head slave, a collar like that, Arthur wouldn’t spend that much on anyone less.’

‘You are correct. I run the Weasley house.’

‘Very well then.’ Lucius indicated down the hallway. ‘This way to the stables. What is your Master interested in purchasing?’

They walked through the grandiose dark manor, Hermione keeping in step behind and to the side of Lucius, the appropriate and respectful positioning.

‘Partially human with some degree of magical ability. Preferably one that has outlived its usefulness to you.’ Hermione recited.

‘Specific categories.’ Lucius commented. ‘What purpose will it serve?’

Lucius led her outside under the grey sky and along a stone path. Several other slaves milled around, carrying items and attending to the grounds. As soon as Lucius’ imposing form approached, the nearby slaves bowed low and shifted quickly away.

‘I am sure you are aware of the family Weasley’s penchant for experimentation.’ Hermione said and Lucius smiled cruelly in understanding.

‘I have just the stock.’

A barn made of black wood, double doors and imposing was where Lucius stopped as an older slave crept forward to open the doors for his Master. The strong stench of cramped bodies living in a small space hit Hermione hard. Sweat, urine and faeces stunk through the entire barn, making the stale air almost toxic to breathe. Hermione choked back the urge to bury her nose and mouth in her robe sleeve.

With a lazy tap of his cane, Lucius Malfoy breathed deeply and comfortably once before taking off at a fast pace through the barn. Hermione had one full breath of fresh air before Lucius began to walk and the acrid stench of urine returned. She followed after him quickly and the clean air returned.

Even though Hermione had never cast a charm in her life, she easily recognised the air cleansing bubble surrounding Lucius.

The magic was an awkward size, she couldn’t walk constantly within the bubble, lest she break the laws of acceptable relations between slaves and Lords, but her stomach couldn’t cope with the foul stench in the air. Hermione settled into an arrhythmic pattern of holding a breath for as long as possible before stumbling forward to steal clean air. They walked past rows of identical cells, grey bars bolted to the wooden walls with no discernable door or lock. There was one inhabitant in each small cell, all manner of part humans, dark creatures and beasts. Some were howling or wailing, some moaned pitifully or clutched the bars of its cell, but all were collared and chained to the dirty floor.

Lucius stopped in front of one cell, no different or marked from the others. The inhabitant was tucked away into the darkness at the back, a dirty chain trailing into the shadows.

Lucius tapped the bars with his cane and the chain shifted.

‘Up.’ He commanded.

Finally stopped, Hermione was able to breathe easier standing behind Lucius and watched in fascination as the figure inside was brought forward.

‘You’ll understand the unpredictability; full moon is a week away.’ Lucius commented.

A figure was dragged forward by the magically pulled chain towards them. Tight wiry muscles bunched under thin, pale skin as the clearly male figure struggled against the pull. Boney knees scraped against wood, reopening old wounds to match his bloodied bare feet. The heavy collar and chain was impenetrable, the collar itself looked to be made of solid steel, glinting in the dim light.

The man came to rest, kneeling pressed against the bars, his head dragged down under the weight of the collar. The hair that hung limply in front of his face was light brown with flecks of grey, probably prematurely so, because his muscles looked too well formed for him to be the age it suggested. Scars covered his entire body, the most prominent being a huge ragged bite mark on his left shoulder.

‘A week before full moon and he is already feeling the effects?’ Hermione clarified.

‘My potioneer was able to brew the concoction which extends a werewolf’s cycle.’ Lucius said with more than a hint of pride. ‘It serves my purpose.’

‘What was its purpose?’ Hermione questioned, stepping closer to examine the potential purchase.

Without warning, the werewolf lurched towards her. He lashed out, hands scrabbling to grip at her robes, face snarling and pressed against the bars of his cage. Sharp yellowed teeth bared threateningly as Lucius’ cane flicked between Hermione and the cage and pulled her back.

‘The bite of a feral werewolf in the week leading up to the full moon,’ Lucius said calmly even as Hermione’s heart hammered within her chest, ‘though not infectious, causes ceaseless excruciating pain enough to rival the Cruciatus curse.’

‘Is… is there a cure?’ Hermione forced out, adrenaline still pumping through her system.

‘None. The subject must endure the pain until the new moon. It was a suitable punishment for misbehaving slaves.’

_Two weeks._ Hermione had endured the curse before, as punishment, or “corrective procedures” during her training at the Ministry, and a handful of times at the House of Black, usually only for a few moments, and never longer than ten minutes. To be in that much pain for days on end…

The werewolf watched her carefully with amber eyes – pupils so blown that the iris looked almost yellow in comparison – pitifully scratching his head against the bars, a low whine beginning in the base of his throat.

‘Behave, Lupin.’ Lucius warned, the end of his cane driving into what little meat the werewolf had on this thigh. The man gasped out scurried back from the bars.

Hermione looked towards Lucius, keeping her eyes downcast. ‘May I inspect the stock?’

Lucius shifted the slim cane through his fingers and struck the silver figurehead of the fierce serpent against the bars.

‘_Evanesco._’ He murmured, and the bars of the cell vanished. The snake’s bared fangs levelled at the man’s face. ‘Knees, werewolf.’

Genuine terror entered Lupin’s eyes and he scrambled to kneel, legs spread on the disgusting ground, head bent in fear, not submission. He drew sharp panicked breathes as Hermione stepped closer, thin chest rising and falling. She stopped close to him, watching his eyes flick rapidly from her shoes to the floor.

Hermione rested one hand on his lank hair and Lupin shuddered in expectation of a blow.

‘Look at me.’ Hermione commanded gently.

Lupin hesitated slightly, his head shaking in denial. Hermione traced a finger down the side of his face and cupped his jaw line.

‘Look at me, pup.’ She spoke again, her voice firmer.

The conflicted werewolf turned his handsome face up towards her. He blinked rapidly, glancing at her hand on his stubble-covered cheek like he was expecting it to cause him pain.

‘You have a way with animals.’ The Master commented, almost impressed.

‘Even a slave can command respect from those below themselves.’ Hermione replied easily, her fingers stroking a lazy pattern through his hair.

Deep gouges ran diagonally from his eye to his jaw, old and new scars that marred his aged but otherwise handsome face.

‘I trust there will be a discount because of these.’ Hermione stated, fingers following the lines of the scars. A soft moan rumbled in the base of Lupin’s throat as he closed his eyes in total bliss at her gentle touch.

‘He’s not worth displaying.’ Lucius scoffed.

‘There _will_ be a discount.’ Hermione stated, and kneeling by her side, Lupin shuddered at the commanding tone in her voice.

‘Tell me your pedigree, pup.’ Hermione instructed.

Lupin’s mouth opened and moved soundlessly, his amber eyes immediately filling with shame and self-loathing, unable to conjure the coherent words this close to the full moon.

‘Born to a lower class wizard and witch,’ Lupin supplied. ‘Practiced magic until he was bitten at the age of twelve by none other than Fenrir Greyback.’

Hermione was impressed, recognising the famed sire.

‘Stand, pup.’ She commanded softly.

Lupin rushed to obey, clumsily getting to his feet and bowing his head as he shifted instinctively towards her. His naked chest showed every rib along his side, the light dusting of light brown hair bearing no relation to the wolf within. The only scrap of clothing he wore was a silver-grey fur pelt tied around his bony waist.

‘And this?’ Hermione questioned, thumb brushing against the fur.

‘His own.’ Lucius informed her. ‘I had the werewolf partially skinned one full moon. Don’t worry, there wasn’t any permanent scarring.’

Lucius moved forward and Lupin’s eyes widened and breath stuttered as he was encased in the bubble of cleansed air. With a graceful tug, Lucius removed the fur pelt and handed it to Hermione, leaving Lupin naked, his hands clenching behind his back with the desire to cover himself.

‘Just so your house knows what they’re purchasing.’ Lucius indicated at the pelt in her arms. He turned to Lupin, and with one gloved hand, handled the lax genitals, displaying them for Hermione.

‘Still has a few good years of siring left in him.’ Lucius commented. ‘Otherwise, we can geld him if you like.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Hermione shook her head, rolling the pelt in her hands, stroking the soft fur.

Lucius moved around the werewolf and tapped the breadth of his shoulders with his cane. ‘Broad shoulders, still capable of bearing heavy loads.’ A sharp stab at Lupin’s legs and he fell heavily to his knees again. ‘Good condition, considering his age.’

Hermione held out the fur pelt and Lupin stared at it for a moment, before taking it and tying it around his waist. Hermione’s hand dropped to the heavy collar, fingering the twin dog tags stating his information that hung at the base of his throat. Crescent shaped burns indented his skin where they touched.

‘Silver?’ she asked.

‘The clasp is solid silver too.’ Lucius agreed. ‘He won’t dare run. Well behaved, only needs the occasional beating before full moon to keep him in line.’

Carefully considering all the variables, Hermione decided on her purchase. ‘Name your price.’

Lucius Malfoy did, and Hermione arched an eyebrow at the exuberant price. She named her own, undervaluing the beast by her side. ‘I will also be taking his current collar.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Lucius huffed, and the bartering continued.

Eventually, they settled on a price midway between the two initial values, and Hermione also walked away with the collar, a length of chain as a temporary leash and the instructions for the cycle-extending potion, proving her capability as Head Slave.

The paperwork was completed efficiently and Hermione walked out of the slaves entrance to Malfoy Manor, the chain leash wrapped twice around her hand trailing behind her, attached to the heavy collar of –as the paperwork she held declared –Remus Lupin the werewolf.


	2. Chapter 2

Remus was no more clothed or cleaned than he was in the cell. The stench of excrement still clung to him and dirt stained his skin. He hunched over as he trailed behind Hermione, keeping so close that the leash between them constantly dragged on the ground. The approaching full moon was already causing chaos in his system, robbing him of more complex thoughts. The bright sun hurt his pale skin almost as much as a moonrise. He was slowly degenerating into his primal instincts, hardly coherent enough to recognise he had been bought. He hadn’t noticed the black and red collar around his supposed Mistress’s throat. His legs were weak and constantly stumbled as he walked a long distance for the first time in years. As he hunched over, he kept trying to catch glimpses of his Mistress’s beautiful young face, so captivated he had been since his raised his gaze as he knelt beside her.

The streets were fairly crowded as they walked through the throng of people. They were mostly slaves, the Masters themselves preferring to apparate. Slaves weren’t allowed to use magic, even if they had magical blood in their veins, let alone the fact that none had the required training. Remus stuck very close, glaring or even growling at anyone that dared to touch her as they walked.

Remus hoped they reached a public floo fireplace soon. Despite the thrill of an event in his usually monotonous life, Remus was beginning to feel distressed and tired in the new environment. Instability caused by the potion only a few days before the full moon kept him on edge. As a creature of habit, Remus craved a cell or a dungeon, somewhere he could curl on the floor and look forward to his Mistress’s next visit.

Above all, Remus missed his mind over the years since the cycle-extending potion was developed. He wanted to be able to speak and thank his new Mistress with the eloquent words he used to posses and that she deserved.

A firm tug on his chain brought him back in to line, alerting Remus to the public fireplace they were approaching. The line was considerable, full of lower class slaves who were permanently bowed over and flinched at anyone with a strong presence. With a cold glare at the skinny slave at the front, Hermione confidently strode ahead of the line. The level of power displayed by his new Mistress sent a twinge through Remus’ gut.

Instinctual fear of magic made Remus’s breath catch as Hermione lead him into the cramped fireplace and grabbed a handful of floo powder. He resisted the urge to clutch at his Mistress, but did clench his neck in order to more firmly feel his collar.

Hermione raised her clenched fist and spoke in a clear voice “The Burrow”.

Remus’ vision exploded into light and fire and when the flames receded, they were standing in an open field, miles upon miles of growing crops spreading in every direction. Hermione firmly led him and, now that he focused, he realised there was a large structure standing before him. The magic surrounding this place kept the Weasley house hidden from notice until either attention was drawn to it or someone informed you of its whereabouts. Now that he noticed it, Remus found it rather hard to look away. The house was… bright, each window a different colour than the last and the wood of the building, though mostly a deep red, seemed to slightly change with the wind and setting sun. It wasn’t short and sprawling like Malfoy Manor, rather tall and stretched, haphazardly designed but beautiful in construction. The house also seemed to be bustling with life. Shadows chased each other past every window and garden gnomes were being hurled over the high hedge by a couple of laughing slaves. They sobered quickly as they saw Hermione approaching.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Hermione.’ They dutifully acknowledged.

In return, Hermione gave the slaves a curt nod and continued around the base of the tall house. They passed a house elf on a tall ladder desperately trying to scrub a scorch mark from a now-yellow wall.

‘Nippy.’ Hermione addressed the small creature, who yelped in surprise. He peered down at the two and his large round eyes widened at the sight of Remus. ‘Come down. I need your assistance with the new stock.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Nippy squeaked, and clambered down the ladder.

Behind the Weasley house, heavy wooden doors on the floor led to the family’s small dungeon. Hermione waited impatiently at the trap door until Remus scrambled forward to open for her. Nippy snapped his fingers and a small ball of light zoomed off to light the lanterns. It illuminated a storage room-turned-dungeon. A wrought iron clasp of a lion baring its teeth was secured to the wall at shoulder height in a cleared out area that was larger by half that the cell he’d been kept in before.

Hermione unwound the leash and gave it to the small house elf, who jumped forward and hovered up to the lion, hooking the leash over its teeth and snapping his bone-thin fingers. The clasp snapped closed and Remus was tugged slightly forward.

The magical clasp reeled him in, shortening the leash until Remus had just enough length to kneel and then lie down on the floor against the stone wall.

‘Thank you, Nippy.’ Hermione dismissed. The house elf bowed and scurried back up the stairs. Hermione turned to the curled up form of Remus. ‘Food will be brought to you two times a day. I do not have time to deal with you this month, so your transformation will take place here.’

With that, Hermione turned on her heel to leave. Desperation gurgled through Remus, and he made a pathetic noise somewhere between begging and a whimper, reaching out for her. Hermione ignored him and continued on. She had other duties to attend to today.

As soon as Hermione closed the dungeon, there was the sharp pop of someone aparating and the long line of someone’s body pressed against her back.

‘Did you get me my present?’ he breathed into her neck.

Another crack and a face grinned at her, identical to the one curving a smile into the shell of her ear.

‘I did, Lord Master Fred.’ Hermione answered curtly. She raised her eyes to the twin standing in front of her and greeted him with a bowed head. ‘Lord Master George.’

Fred sighed dramatically and stepped away from touching her. ‘How is it she can always tell?’ he asked his counterpart.

‘George is prettier.’ Hermione said.

The breach of regulation by simply speaking without being spoken to would have had her beaten in the Black household. Her cheekiness would result in starvation for days on end until she would lick at her Masters shoes for forgiveness and the hope of some scraps.

_‘This House is ruining me.’_ Hermione thought, and for not the first time, as the twins laughed at her remark. ‘_I’m a good slave, a good pleasure slave, and I’m wasting my best years as a Head Slave when I should retire to this position.’_

Hermione’s sharp mind had deduced early in her ownership to the Weasley Household that the only way she could remain was to make herself unreplaceable. She wasn’t a vain woman, but she knew full well that she was expensive. She was a valuable slave with pleasure training and still in the prime of her youth.

The Weasley family had no use for a pleasure slave. The parents were happily married with no desire to look elsewhere. The eldest, Bill was married, Percy engaged and Charlie was slaughtered. The twins, though they often flirted and sometimes touched her, they were content in finding their own partners, and only occasionally used her services to break a dry spell.

That only left Ginny, who had no inclination, and Ronald. Ron, whom Hermione belonged to in name only, had only employed her services a handful of times since she’d come into his possession. Hermione wasn’t sure what made the young Lord disinterested, but she wasn’t complaining.

Noticing all this, Hermione sought out other ways to make herself unreplaceable. She knew the next time the financial squeeze became too tight, the pricy and unneeded pleasure slave would be the first to go. Being sold back to the Ministry would mean Market, where a slave’s fate was at the mercy of the rabble.

Hermione rose to the position of Head Slave in under six months, proving her worth with dedicated effort to ensure the entire House ran smoothly. She tracked finances, managed lesser slaves and even had a significant hand in the Weasley twins business.

It was the Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes that necessitated the purchase of the werewolf chained in the dungeon.

Fred rubbed his hands together gleefully and turned his attention to the dungeon doors. ‘What did you get me?’

The doors flew open by magic and Hermione obediently followed her Masters into the darkness.

‘A werewolf.’ She answered.

‘Ooh, exciting.’ George waggled his eyebrows. The lanterns burst alight by whispered command and illuminated the curled up form of Remus Lupin.

‘Good afternoon, slave.’ Fred greeted loudly.

Remus lifted his head and blinked owlishly. His sluggish gaze settled on Hermione and his entire demeanour brightened in hope. He scrambled to his knees, presenting himself the best way he knew how in an attempt to impress her.

‘I’m George, that’s Fred, and welcome to the Burrow.’

A small crease formed between Remus’ eyebrows as he tried to understand and process the new information. The long delay in his response caused Fred sigh dramatically.

‘You got me a defective slave?’ Fred grumbled, moving to stand behind Hermione and wrap a hand around her waist. ‘Is that all you think about me?’

‘Mind you.’ George said, taking Remus’ chin in hand and angling the slave’s head, his nose wrinkling in distaste. ‘He’s a bit pretty.’

‘He has been fed a potion containing wolfsbane. It keeps him feral and his bite poisonous.’ Hermione reported.

George’s eyes widened with intrigue and his hand snapped back. ‘A potion to give a human-form its werewolf mind.’

Fred rested his chin on Hermione’s head and stared at his brother. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘What if there’s the reverse?’ George continued, nodding along. ‘A derivative of the original potion-’

‘That can give a werewolf their human mind.’ Fred finished excitedly. His hand slid to Hermione’s hip and tapped his fingers absentmindedly while he thought.

Remus’ eyes narrowed as he focused on the touch, a low growl rumbling through his body. Attuned to the werewolf’s delicate emotions, Hermione managed to leap forward and pull George back.

Remus launched towards the twins, jaws snapping violently as he tried to defend his Mistress. He strained at his chain, teeth scaping dangerously close. Hermione pulled the Master out of the way and positioned herself in front of him.

She was knocked aside by the brutal force of the feral werewolf, her head connecting heavily against the stone floor. Fred yelled a charm and the leash recoiled, pulling Remus back until he was facing the wall, unable to move. George dropped down beside Hermione, cradling her skull gently.

She hissed and sat up, touching the place she hit with her fingers and noticing a slick of blood from the small cut.

‘’m okay.’ Hermione answered quietly. She tried to stand up and winced in pain. She looked to where Remus was pulled tight against the wall, half his face pressed onto the stone. He stared at her with sorrow and fear in his eyes, whimpering quietly.

‘We can’t keep him, he’s dangerous.’ Fred growled, his wanted pointed at the nape of the werewolf’s neck.

‘No!’ Hermione protested weakly. ‘It’s just the potion. He’s… it makes him feral.’

Remus dug ragged fingernails into his face, tracing the diagonal scars, making them rise with red welts.

‘Let him detox.’ George said. ‘Once the lunar cycle is complete, we can start working on the new potion.’

‘By “we”, you mean me.’ Hermione said in a daze.

‘Not until you can walk in a straight line.’ George wagged a finger at her. Fred viciously stabbed Remus in the back of the neck with his wand before yelling for the gnome-throwing slaves. The two young boys escorted Hermione out of the dungeon and took her into her quarters. Fred and George re-checked the charms on the werewolf’s collar and leash, tossed a few pieces of bread and bowls of water nearby and locked the dungeon doors.

They wouldn’t open again for ten days.


	3. Chapter 3

When the heavy dungeon doors opened again, Remus sat upright. He quickly unbundled his own furred pelt he had been using as a pillow and wrapped it around his waist before the footsteps reached the stone floor.

‘Miss Hermione.’ He greeted, ducking his head and keeping a tight hold of the werewolf skin.

She gave a perfunctory smile, setting down a warm bowl of water and a cloth wrapped around a few supplies. ‘How are you feeling?’

Remus gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘No worse than usual.’ He kept his eyes trained on her, far more focused on the detail now that he was more conscious of his surroundings. She is completely composed, still looking fresh and well-kept, despite the hour crawling towards night. The black and red collar looked strangely decorative around her throat, rather than the pure function of own collar. Remus was still lashed to the wall with the short chain, the last few days spent pacing out the small distance allowed him, between the two separated buckets, one for food and one for waste, and sleeping on the dirty ground between.

‘I’m sorry.’ Remus said, vaguely gesturing to her head. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

Instinctively, Hermione’s hand went up to touch the area behind her ear. ‘It’s no matter.’ She dismissed, her fingers dragging down through her bushy hair to rest at the base of her throat, thumb unconsciously rubbing across the emblem. Remus couldn’t help but watch their movement.

‘I didn’t… realise you were a slave.’ Remus said, bending his head. ‘Everything’s a bit… fuzzy, but I thought you were my new Mistress.’

‘Understandable. Though I am Head Slave of this household, and you will continue to submit to me.’

‘Yes, M’lady.’

‘This treatment should have come to you sooner, but I have been busy with the run of the house.’ She said. ‘Masters Fred and George have become insistent that research progress.’

‘Research?’ Remus asked, finally fastening the pelt around his waist so he could assist Hermione in unpacking her supplies. He removed a small cauldron from the wrap and carefully arranged the vials on the small table between them.

‘We were discussing it earlier, don’t you remember?’ she asked.

Remus gave a self-depreciating smile. ‘I feel like I don’t remember much of anything. What year is it now?’

Hermione told him, and he frowned. ‘It’s been the better half of a decade now, since I’ve been aware of myself. ‘Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.’ He quoted, wincing as he sat on the ground.

Hermione paused, staring at him in amazement. ‘You know Mark Twain?’

Remus tilted his head. ‘Well, yes. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents always made sure we had some literature in the house, Muggle books were cheapest. We had this book of quotations, my dad would do different voices.’ He took a handful of grains from his food bucket and gestured at the young woman across from him. ‘What about you?’

‘Mudblood.’ She gave by way of explanation. Her voice was softer than he had ever heard it. ‘I grew up on the other side. I would read anything I got my hands on. Novels, textbooks, poetry… I used to think there was real magic in the words.’

He sat forward, excitement in his veins purely by his own design. ‘But there is. The magic is in the words, it always has been.’

Hermione gave him a humouring smile, which only served to encourage him.

‘Why do you think every spell begins with the spoken word? Even the most powerful of wizards cannot conjure complex enchantments without speaking them into being.’

‘You mean that spells have magic.’ Hermione pointed out. ‘Hardly ground breaking news.’

‘But that’s not all.’ Remus insisted. ‘Your Masters command and you obey. You speak to the lesser servants, you organise and lead them.’ She was staring at him now, eyebrows knit as she listened. ‘In books and in poetry… words make us laugh and cry. Even potions can’t make those emotions genuine. Words carry ideas, which are harder to kill than any man with any number of Horcruxes.’

‘Wow.’ Hermione said. ‘You really believe that? Words are magic?’

‘Most ardently.’

The werewolf believed it with passion, one that made Hermione almost uncomfortable to see displayed so openly. Unsettled, her eyes flicked down to the potions supplies laid out between them and began lighting a fire under the cauldron. While it wasn’t uncommon for slaves to be instructed to brew potions for their Masters, the art danced along a fine line of magic making. Hermione was always careful, always erring on the side of caution when it came to practicing magic.

And yet, if this werewolf’s words were to be believed, those nights she had curled up, her head on her Master’s knee as she read from the Black’s large library collection, were dabbling in the forbidden arts. There were nights when the stories would be so finely crafted she would start crying or laughing into the material of his robes, and her Lord Master Sirius would order her to read the stories aloud while he lay back, his hand a comforting weight in her hair. And the words would impact him, as well. Although not quite to the same extent, Sirius always claimed his imagination was somewhat lacking compared to her own, his breath would catch at the right moments and his hand would tighten in her hair.

She was working magic on him. A pleasure slave, a mudblood, casting magic over her Lord Master, the most pure blooded, the Head of the Family Black.

The thought was intoxicating.

Hermione sprinkled a fine powder into the cauldron and bent in towards Remus.

‘Tell me about the books you have read.’ She whispered.

Learning had always been Hermione’s weakness. She devoured books and knowledge and almost always applied it. The temptation to stay in the dungeon and whisper secret truths to each other was very great, but by early evening, her responsibilities were pressing. Dinner had to be arranged and she had many other duties to attend to.

As she stood to leave, Remus held onto her hand, his eyes bright with a long-lost passion. He made her promise to try and sneak a single book into their dungeon, that they might read it together while they worked on the treatment. She agreed almost without hesitation.

The night ran smoothly, demonstrating that even half distracted, Hermione was still a competent and efficient Head Slave. All family members were well attended to, and even the slaves had a satisfying meal. The bed covers were turned down and the twins indulged in lazily taking turns kissing her against the hallway wall, not as a reward or to reach climax, simply because they enjoyed it.

The Burrow became quiet and dark as Hermione carefully examined the protection spells, the needs to be met tomorrow. During her examination of the house, she stole into the small, cramped library and plucked a book from the shelf, intent on hiding it underneath her pillow.

Too late she noticed the figure standing in the kitchen, hunched over an opened bottle. Head immediately bowed, she tried to silently step away, tried to stay invisible like the good slave she was.

‘No.’ The man said, looking up from under his stringy red hair. ‘I want to fuck you tonight.’

‘Sir, your brothers have requested I begin work on-’

‘Am I not your Lord Master?’ he yelled. A glass shattered, swept to the ground by his sweeping gestures as he stumbled towards Hermione. ‘You were given to _me._ You obey me. If I push you over a table, you bend!’

Hermione didn’t quiver or shudder; she was too well trained, too experienced to fear a drunken Master. She merely met his red-rimmed, wet eyes and nodded, reassuring him. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

His jaw clenched, Ron Weasley took a step backwards and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle of liquor. He took two steady gulps before he seemed to remember Hermione was still awaiting orders.

‘Go to my bedroom and take off your clothes.’

Hermione bowed her head at Lord Master Ron. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

When the dungeon doors opened again, Remus stilled his pacing and blinked rapidly against the harsh light of the outside world. Hermione descended the stairs, well dressed and composed, even her hair had been tamed into submission.

‘Did you bring a book for us?’ he asked excitedly.

‘No.’ Hermione replied coolly.

‘Are – are you alright?’ Remus asked, reaching out to her and stepping forward. The chain snapped taunt and he stopped, just out of reach. ‘You said you would come back first thing this morning, it’s been hours.’

‘I had other duties to attend to.’ Hermione replied. She settled her usual position in front of the supplies. She didn’t look at him though, so Remus felt the need to press.

‘Emergency in the pantry?’ he quipped.

She levelled a glare at him. ‘Lord Master Ron had need of my services, so I provided them for him.’

The answer obtained, Remus sub-consciously stole a glance up the dungeon stairs. ‘Is he a good master?’

Hermione hesitated for a moment before she answered. ‘He’s lonely. And overlooked. He’s been second-rate his entire life, and never had a friend. The only boy in his year and house was Neville Longbottom, and as far as I know, Ron bullied him mercilessly through his entire schooling at Hogwarts. And he was bullied in return by Lord Malfoy’s son. Ron Weasley is a deeply unhappy man.’

‘So that makes it alright for him to take you to his bed?’ Remus asked.

‘Everything Lord Master Ron owns has been handed down from his brothers. I am the only thing given to him specifically.’ Hermione defended him. ‘Besides, it is my skill set, and I am good at fucking and pleasuring.’

Remus flinched and bent his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Hermione said. ‘Besides, you’re only eight years too late.’

She watched the colour drain from his face as he stared at her, trying to count backwards and he feared the worst. She enjoyed his pain for a moment before she laughed and took pity. ‘It’s okay. I’m older than I look.’ She held out a hand. ‘I need to take a sample of your blood.’

He willingly placed his arm in her hand. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ She replied.

‘What!’ Remus exclaimed. ‘You were only fourteen?’

‘That was when my pleasure training was completed.’ Hermione nodded, dragging a small dagger over his flesh, thick blood dripping into a rusty chalice. ‘My first Lord Master was very gracious to me. I served him, but he did not touch me for a full year.’

Remus felt acid churn in his gut. ‘He must have been a real saint. Ow!’

She smiled and raised her eyebrows, daring him to keep complaining or disrespecting her late Master. She pulled the dagger out of his skin and set it to the side and wiped it on a cloth.

‘Now your hair.’ She gestured and Remus bent his neck downwards, presenting his light brown hair to her. With a few sharp tugs she had all she needed.

‘Tell me about your old Master?’ Remus asked quietly, his neck still bent.

Hermoine ran a hand through his hair, pressing her fingers into his stinging scalp. ‘He was very handsome. Old, but also young. He was a very powerful wizard, and Head of a very powerful House, but… playful and charismatic. He was a good Master.’

‘What happened to him?’ Remus’ voice took on the same hushed tones Hermione’s had dropped to.

‘He died. Two years ago now. The twins, Fred and George remind me of him sometimes.’

‘You must miss him.’ Remus said.

‘Very much.’ Hermione said, fingers tucking behind his ears. ‘My Master was very kind to me. He let me read and think and explore, indulged my thirst for knowledge when he could have just restricted me to his bed.’ Hermione released Remus’ head and smiled at the fond memories of her Master as she packed up the supplies.

‘What was his name?’ Remus requested.

‘His name was Sirius Black.’

‘No.’ Remus breathed. A deathly chill took over his body, mouth dropping open as the name registered.

‘What’s wrong?’ Hermione asked, worried.

An unquenchable anger rose up in Remus and he bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. ‘Get out.’ He growled.

‘Lupin–’ she reached forward but he shoved her away. His hands were shaking with fury as he clenched them into fists and pressed them into his forehead. Nails dragged down the scars on his face, making them freshly redden.

‘I held onto hope for so long.’ He whispered hoarsely.

‘Did you know him?’ Hermione demanded. ‘Tell me!’

‘Please, please just leave me.’ He begged. Remus tucked himself against the wall, gathering the extra chain around his arms until it dug into his skin.

She stayed, for a moment, until the steady sound of his skin scraping against the rough stonework as he rocked himself became too much. It unsettled her, this extreme reaction, but she could be patient.

She would pull the answer from her disobedient pup, Hermione decided as she took the samples out of the dungeon. With kindness or with cruelty, she would extract any information about her former Master.

When the dungeon doors slammed shut, Remus bent over his waste bucket and vomited out the slimy contents of his stomach and drank from the trough. He counted out 10 panicked breaths, and then purposefully slowed his breathing, counting his heart rate until he lost count in the triple digits. He buried his head in his hands.

Half-naked, scared and chained in a dungeon, Remus wept with disappointment and pain for the friend he thought was a better man.


	4. Chapter 4

Three hours later, Hermione strode back into the dungeon. Remus barely had enough time to go to his knees before she roughly gripped his hair and tugged his head back, exposing the white column of his throat, his mouth half open in pain.

A goblet was held under his nose, full of a foul smelling potion, thick with evil. His head jerked away automatically but Hermione wrenched him back into place.

‘What is that?’ Remus asked with fear.

‘You don’t recognise it?’ the goblet tipped slightly, the ooze sliding towards his lips. ‘You’ve choked it down every month.’

Remus writhed with panic but Hermione’s grip was firm and unmoving.

‘Now you will tell me everything you know about Sirius Black, or you will drink this and lose your precious mind again.’ Hermione threatened, her teeth bared. ‘How do you know about him? Did you kill him?’

‘Won’t your Weasley Masters wonder why their new slave is useless and mindless?’ Remus asked.

‘I’m experimenting. Accidents happen.’ Hermione said fiercely. ‘Now tell me about Sirius Black. I won’t ask again.’

Remus looked up at her, something like pride shining in his eyes. ‘He always inspired such loyalty. You would have made a fine Gryffindor.’

She pulled the goblet away and struck him across the face, sending him sprawling on the floor. ‘Don’t speak treason.’

She laughed with scorn at the absurdity of the vision before her. ‘You are a werewolf, a half-human. How could you possibly know anything about pure-blooded royalty like my Master?’

Remus clenched his fist against the floor and bared his teeth, but didn’t get up. ‘I wasn’t always a werewolf.’ His head swung up and he glared at her. ‘I was a wizard once.’

That was news to her, but she didn’t let her surprise show. ‘Not any longer, Lupin. You are a slave now, subservient to me. Are you the reason he is dead? Did you maul him and leave him to die?’

‘I never hurt him!’ Remus defended.

‘Then tell me what you know!’ Hermione shouted back.

‘Alright.’ Remus released a long breath. ‘I’ll tell you. Just put that poison somewhere else.’

He sat up and crossed his legs, and Hermione sat across from him, placing the full goblet between them as a threatening reminder.

‘I was bitten when I was twelve. But I was still a wizard from a wizarding family. I went to Hogwarts.’

Hermione’s usual fascination with learning and new information was overwhelmed with the connection she had to her late Master. She stared at him until he continued.

‘I was sorted into Gryffindor, somehow.’ He continued, with a self-depreciating smile. ‘There were two other boys in my year: James Potter and Sirius Black.’

Hermione had assumed the werewolf and her master were classmates when he began telling the story, but the idea was almost ridiculous. ‘And so you claim to know him? From two years when you were a child?’

‘At Hogwarts, your House is your family.’ Remus said firmly. ‘We were boys together. We were brothers. You wouldn’t understand, you’ve never been there, but after two years together at Hogwarts, we would die for each other.’

There is no one Hermione would die for. She doesn’t have that luxury. She has to protect herself.

Remus continued, ‘If James is still out there, I’d… But Sirius was always a bit of a smart git. He was never lacking in confidence, and because James was our leader and a trouble-maker, I was always running after them, trying not to get us expelled.’

The shadow of a smile that had stolen across his face as he spoke dropped abruptly.

‘We were out playing one night. Out of bounds, as usual. We found a secret tunnel, one that led outside the town of Hogsmead. I was writing it down, so we could use it to sneak out and pretend we were third years. It was night, and a full moon.

‘We heard a commotion coming from the town, and instead of running back to our dorm like we ought to, we ran straight into the town.’ Remus’ fingers clenched in the pelt around his waist. ‘The werewolf Fenrir Greyback had slipped his collar that night. The witches and wizards were trying to subdue him, but they didn’t expect three young boys to be caught in the middle. We were hiding behind an inn. James wanted to have a look, and of course Sirius was following him. I was pulling on Sirius’ cloak.

‘Something grabbed me by the ankle. It dragged me backwards. I tried to hold onto Sirius, scream, do something, but it was too late. The werewolf had me, he bit me right here.’ Remus grabbed his shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the ugliest of the scars on his body, a ragged set of teeth marks forever etched into his skin. ‘And Sirius… Sirius was staring right at me. Frozen. I thought he would do something, save me, but…’ Remus closed his eyes for a long moment, and then slowly opened them. ‘The next thing I remember is waking up in the Gryffindor dorm. They carried me through the secret passageway; James hid me under his father’s Invisibility Cloak. They were terrified, but they were keeping me secret. I’ll never forget that.’

‘But, of course, two twelve year olds couldn’t hide me forever. They never gave me up, but the teachers found me in three days. Within an hour I was expelled, my wand was broken and I was sent off to the ministry for _reassessment_. Everything I had was taken from me, my friends, my books. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my family. Or James and Sirius. They screamed and tried to stop them, but I was too weak to say goodbye.

‘So yes. I knew your former Master, Mistress Granger. I thought I knew him.’ Remus’ voice turned cruel. ‘I am only glad he died before I could see the monster he turned into.’

Hermione recoiled at the raw spite aimed at one she loved, by someone who claimed to love him like a brother. Instinct and training told her to defend her former Master’s honour, to remind the chained werewolf that he was the monster. And yet... a small voice told her to be quiet. There was truth in the other slave’s words. Remus had wanted Sirius to be more, to be better. Like the same boy that had smuggled him under the Invisibility Cloak should have hidden and rescued Hermione too. Maybe he could have succeeded.

Hermione didn’t need to be rescued.

Remus cleared his throat. ‘Since then I’ve been sold a dozen times, up for auction, worked in fields and mines, tamed other subhumans, now I’m back to experimentation. Familiar territory, at least.’

‘It won’t be like that.’ Hermione finds herself promising. Remus’ eyes flicked down to the potion between them. ‘No, we, the twins want to create a deviation of the original potion. One with inverse effects.’

Remus looked at her, uncomprehending and more than a little sceptical.

‘I’m smart.’ She defended herself. ‘I have mixed potions before for my Masters with less information than we have now.’

‘On this scale? Something that has never been done before?’

‘If anyone can, we can.’

Remus barked laughter, his head rocked back against the stone of the dungeon. He pointedly looked about them, himself wiry and aged and still only wearing his own pelt, the young woman across from him with bushy hair, slight buck teeth and defiant eyes.

‘This is better than I thought.’ Hermione said excitedly. ‘I mean... you’ve actually _gone_ to Hogwarts! Most of my work has been through experimentation, but you studied the theory and-’ she cut herself off and her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘you practiced magic.’

She sat forward and put away the potion that would have made him feral. Instead she pulled out a scroll of parchment and a quill. ‘What do you remember from your potions classes?’

‘A crazy professor who played favourites.’ Remus shrugged. ‘Hermione, it was thirty years ago.’

Hermione took the chastisement under consideration. ‘Is there any connection at all, between the potion itself and the opposite of its intended use?’ Fred and George seemed to think so, and they got really good marks in their classes, if more than their fair share of detentions.

Remus huffed in frustration and dug through decades of memories. His brow creased. ‘Yes, once. We made a Cure for Boils potion, only James left his over the fire and the cauldron melted.’ He drew his right hand into his lap, touching the back of his palm. ‘It splashed on me, and I got these huge boils all over my skin. I had already finished my potion. It worked so quickly Professor Slughorn ended up giving Gryffindor points, rather than deduct them for James’ stupidity.’ A small laugh escaped him. ‘He was so apologetic, and he begged me to teach him how to do it right. I think that was our first class together.’

Hermione chewed her bottom lip as she jotted down notes. ‘A minor change in the preparation of the potion reversed its effects?’

‘No, it...’ Remus screwed up his face as he remembered. ‘There was a final ingredient, and he needed to wave his wand too. That’s all I remember.’

‘It’s a start.’ Hermione said. She looked down at her notes, and the goblet of harmful potion.

‘We’ll need a plan.’ Remus said. ‘To test each variable once a month would take decades. I don’t think I have that long.’ He cocked his head as he remembered the dangers of potions class. ‘Less with experimenting . You could poison me.’

‘I have a bezoar.’

‘That doesn’t work for everything.’

‘That’s why you’re expendable.’

Remus was taken aback. He had thought, well, he knew what it was like to live without personhood or a Master that cared for him, but he thought he shared some common ground with Hermione, that she was sympathetic to his struggle and his story. Apparently he was mistaken.

‘Besides,’ Hermione continued, unaware or uncaring of her comment’s affect on Remus, ‘potions tend to have only a central effect. I will create a selection of potions and you will ingest them all as we lead up to the full moon. Hopefully we will be able to gather some data and eliminate some variations from the pool. That way, we’re testing a lump of potions each month rather than just one variation. When we find the desired effect it will simply be a process of elimination and fine tuning.’

She unpacked her supplies and began scratching notes on her parchment. She looked up at him expectantly. ‘Are you going to help me?’

And so they worked. It was a careful process of identifying each ingredient from the original potion and its significance, documenting the effects of different methods of preparation and creating a long list of potential potions.

They agreed without words not to speak of Sirius Black. He was a point too raw for the both of them. They both knew very different versions of the man, and imagined him in very different ways.

Remus was grieving the imagined version of his friends he had developed and held onto since he was a young boy. It was a child’s dream. When he was cold and shivering in the early days of his slavery, before he’d even been sold on from the Ministry, during his training, he would return to this dream. He dreamt that one day his friends would burst through the doors of his cell and rescue him from his captors. They would find a magical cure and everything would be fixed and he could go back to Hogwarts and together they would fight dark forces and save the world. As he grew up in chains and became bitter and broken, the dream changed. It became simple. He dreamed they were happy. He dreamed that they became good men, found good wives and settled down to build a household without slaves. Even that dream changed after he cycled through household after household. Maybe they were good to their slaves. Maybe one day he would be traded and end up in James’ servitude and he would be a kind Master. Maybe he would be bought at auction by Sirius, he would remember their happy memories and spare him from beatings and maybe they could even laugh together again. Just once.

But through all of it, Remus held onto the belief that Sirius Black was a good man. The thought that his friend had taken a fifteen year old slave girl to bed made him physically sick. No amount of Hermione’s fawning over her former Master could atone for his despicable actions.

The image in Hermione’s mind was quite different. To her, Sirius Black was regal and playful. She remembered the twitch of his whiskers when he smiled, the way he ruled his household with a firm hand, how he punished laziness and turned a blind eye to playfulness. She remembered his vanity, how he dressed himself even though he had a valet, his aristocratic nose, his elegant sprawl, his face in climax. She remembered the gifts he gave her, purchases ostensibly for himself that he had no use for, trinkets engraved with the crest of the House of Black, story books, a big orange cat with a squashed face. In her mind, Sirius Black was the best Master she could hope for.

She remembered the last time she saw him. He had bent his head down to kiss her thoroughly like he did every morning he left the house for the day. There was no indication there was anything different about that day compared to any other. He had ordered his favourite dinner be prepared, flashed her a smile, walked out the door and never returned.

She’d investigated, or at least tried to investigate. The execution of his Will was prompt upon his certified death, and only through careful investigation did Hermione even find out the other slaves were traded off to other wizarding families. She knew he was killed, brutally and suddenly, but after two years of searching when she could, she still didn’t know who or what killed him.

But she would find out. She was determined and smart and, as she emptied the cup of vile option down the drain and Remus breathed a playful sigh of relief, she was ruthless.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes months. By all rights, it should have taken years, it should have killed Remus three times over, but they got lucky. Hermione’s counterpart in the Malfoy Manor, their potioneer, had left annotations on the instructions, detailing the purpose of each ingredient and how they contributed to the final potion. The other slave must have been very adept to create such a complex potion with no basis, though Hermione questioned how many werewolves were sacrificed in its creation.

It was through these scribbles they were warned against using the leaves of the wolfsbane, and to purchase it under the name Aconite to save money. When Hermione researched the proprieties of the different parts of the Aconite flower, she made sense of the underpinning theory of the cycle lengthening potion.

It was full of irritants and poisons that targeted the wolf, making it angry and drawing it to the surface, combined with enough antidotes and paralytics that the human side would remain subdued. It was a delicate balance, but one Hermione was sure she could replicate. She could use wolfsbane and calming agents that only worked on the wolf, and enough stimulants and human-specific cures to keep the human side present and in control.

Experimentation was lengthy, and interrupted by the Weasley Twins frequently borrowing the werewolf to test their explosive new products. He would be left in the dungeon with fresh wounds or his right arm dyed purple and Fred and George would be giggling in the house as they took notes on the results and tossing names for the product back and forth.

The mood of the house was lifted with Remus bearing the painful experiments, instead of the twins themselves or, when they could manage it, an unsuspecting Ron or Ginny. With Molly no longer fretting over untested pranks, she was more cheerful, less stern, and the slaves of the house benefited.

Large Houses, like the family Black and Malfoy have dozens of slaves. Their slaves are used as a symbol of power, mostly employed to manage their other symbols of power, like the grounds and the house.

The Weasley’s couldn’t afford that luxury. Their slaves needed to be useful, and generate income enough to offset their costs. That’s why they got by on merely a handful of slaves: a cook, the two boys as groundsmen, Nippy the house elf and Hermione as Head Slave. Only in the recent years, with all their children graduated from Hogwarts and the Weasley’s Wizarding Weazes earning money, did they consider purchasing another slave, albeit a werewolf that barely cost anything upfront or with upkeep. The groundsmen boys worked the gardens, orchard and the fields, occasionally, shamefully, accompanied by the Master of the house himself, because he enjoyed working with his hands. When the season’s change demanded it, Arthur Weasley often demanded his sons work alongside himself and the slaves, bringing in the harvest to earn a little money.

Nippy was an obedient and hardworking house elf. He worked hard to make up for the lack of hallboys and various maids that a family as large as the Weasleys’ demanded. His magic was firmly tied to domestic chores because Molly had forbid him from apparating from the property. The house elf was more obedient and somewhat more cheerful than the elves Hermione had worked alongside at the Black residence. It may have had something to do with the lack of shrunken house elf heads mounted on the wall.

The cook, a rotund woman with a stoic face, was adequate to the task of feeding all eleven members of the household. Nothing was lavish in the Burrow, especially not the cuisine, not even for the Masters. That was quite a shock for Hermione when she was first given to the poor family. The slaves eat the same meal as the Masters, just smaller and with less meat and no wine. Not only that, but without a butler or a footman, the family served themselves dinner.

It was so far removed from what Hermione knew from the Black family that her first night in the Burrow she refused to eat at all. At the Black manor, she spent the evenings kneeling at Sirius’ side, occasionally being fed pieces off his plate. Sometimes he would be so distracted by the family news, then by Hermione’s company and body that he would forget to let her attend the slave quarters to receive her evening meal at all. On those nights Hermione’s stomach cramped up and she would curl into a ball in her Master’s bed, hoping that he would dismiss her before he fell asleep, sated. She learned quickly to fawn over him during the evening meal. If she prompted him with little sighs and affectionately resting her head on his knee, he would reward her with a larger portion of his meal. Then, later in the night, he would feel hungry and order his valet to bring some more food into his bedchambers. They would sit there together, naked and glistening with sweat, and eat the same food and speak to each other as close as they could get to equals.

And that left Hermione. She filled the roles of laundry maid, lady’s maid, housekeeper, nurse, undercook, as well as managing the other slaves and the finances. Her responsibilities caused her to be the first to rise, she worked hard during the day, would only go to bed long after the rest of the family had retired. She was capable. She could not let herself be otherwise.

Once, Hermione entered the dungeon to continue work on the potion with Remus and almost fell asleep into the cauldron. Her hair curled in the heat, frizzing up from the steam of the potion. He smiled, took her gently by the arm and let her lay down. He removed his pelt and bundled it up, placing it gently under her head despite his nakedness. She slept, though not without feeling guilty for taking time off from her duties. When she woke, Remus was bent over the ingredients, carefully slicing the Aconite root and adding them to the boiling water. She watched him, her hand clenched in the soft fur of his pelt. He didn’t seem to mind his nakedness, even though the dungeon must have been cold. It was no colder than the Malfoy stables he had lived in without sunlight or a blanket.

While they worked, they talked. Sometimes they discussed books, listing each one they read and remembered fondly, but most of the time they talked about magic.

‘No, see, I believe wandless magic was actually the predecessor to the magic practiced today.’ Remus argued.

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Hermione fired back. ‘Wandless and wordless magic are the most advanced forms of magic that can be practiced. Everyone knows they are extremely difficult to master. Pass me the powdered root.’

He did so, not breaking the pace of the argument. ‘Difficult to master, yes, it’s but not dependent on using a wand first. Think about it, the earliest wizards had to use magic in order to create wands at all. Also young wizard and witch children cast magic without even intending do, never mind without a wand or the correct incantation. I know I did. I jumped out of a tree and bounced away to safety.’

‘So you’re saying it’s primitive, and difficult to control, but present?’ Hermione asked.

‘Yes, exactly. Anyone with magical awareness could allow harness the same power.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Hermione dismissed. ‘You’re saying that I could cast actual and advanced magic without any training at all.’

‘Maybe you could.’ Remus shrugged, as though he wasn’t saying treason that could give him the death penalty.

‘Mudbloods can’t perform magic.’ Hermione stated.

‘Can’t? Or aren’t permitted to?’

Something clenched in her stomach, responding to the threat against the rules she held so dear.

‘How did you become a slave?’ Remus asked.

‘I was seized by the Ministry at age six.’ Hermione replied clinically.

‘Why? Why do they even need Muggle-born slaves? It makes sense that they would want to collar dark creatures like me, I’m dangerous. But what is the purpose of enslaving some muggle children but not others?’

Hermione hesitated. ‘I displayed magical awareness.’

‘Magical awareness.’ Remus muttered with distaste. ‘What does that even mean?’

Hermione worried at her lower lip. Remus sat forward, his eyes widening. ‘You performed magic, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t.’ She refuted instinctively. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘You did.’ Remus insisted. ‘Tell me.’

Remembering something for the first time in almost two decades, Hermione stared into the middle distance. ‘I was scared. I was running from... from a dog. I looked over my shoulder and suddenly I was floating in the air. When the Ministry took me they told me I was aware of the magic in the world. They told me it happened because I was aware of magic, like I just happened across it. I never questioned them.’

Remus swallowed. ‘They don’t need mudblood slaves to be aware of magic. They take them to keep an eye on you. Because you’re magical.’

Hermione’s hands shook. The reverent way he said the words was soft and gentle but it shattered her. She wasn’t permitted to be magical. She was a slave, a mudblood. To believe herself magical was to raise her standing to be equal to that of her Lord Masters.

She fled. And they didn’t talk about magic for a long time.

* * *

The first month’s potion did nothing. No measurable effect, no change. Remus was shackled, arms and legs to his collar and the wall and the dungeon was cleared out. Hermione watched from the stairs for the first hour, hoping against hope that she would see him change in any way. But he was vicious and violent. The next morning, deep scratches were carved into his flesh, the ground and the wall he slept against. Remus shivered against the stone, his sandy hair falling across his face.

Hermione brought a blanket down into the dungeon and tucked it around his naked form. His eyes stayed squeezed shut, but his nose buried into the cloth.

‘I hate it.’ He said. Only his brow was visible and it furrowed deeply. ‘I hate this fucking curse.’

He was more clothed than she had ever seen him before, yet the intensity with which he spat those words splayed him open and vulnerable.

Hermione hesitated. She sank down to the floor next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I had Cook save you some bacon and sausages.’

His hand gripped hers through the blanket, but he didn’t move.

‘The potion didn’t work.’ He said bitterly. ‘Not this time.’

‘What do you remember?’ Hermione asked.

The shoulder under her hand raised in a shrug. ‘I black out when it happens, but I remember everything I’ve done. I’m not just not in control, I’m not even present. Just like it was without any potion.’

‘Okay.’ She moved to stand. ‘I’ll bring you breakfast.’

‘Stay.’ His hand squeezed hers briefly. ‘Please.’

She didn’t know why, but she stayed.

He was so much more broken this month than the previous. Maybe because he was only just waking up, or because he was given hope that turned out to be futile.

His breathing changed in a way that indicated he wanted to say something, something difficult.

‘Did he mention me at all?’ he asked.

Hermione didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. ‘No.’

He hunched a little further, like the answer hit him like a punch.

‘And James?’ a little more hope entered his voice. ‘What did he say about James?’

‘I never heard of any James before you mentioned him.’

‘What?’

He sat up, the chain attached to his collar clanking against the wall. ‘No, that’s impossible. James Potter, of the Family Potter, you must know them.’

‘Remus.’ She said steadily, trying to calm him down. ‘I served the Most Noble House for twelve years. I travelled many circles of high society and was brought into the homes of many families. The Potter family is not one of them.’

He shook his head. ‘What you’re saying can’t be true.’

‘Perhaps they were lower class?’

‘No. Mr and Mrs Potter were wealthy. Very wealthy. But they were old. Maybe they’ve passed away by now, but James is still alive, he has to be!’

Hermione searched her memories. Sirius never talked about, nor had any, friends, and though she hung on every word about Hogwarts, she couldn’t remember anything about classmates. ‘Maybe they stopped being friends after you left.’

Remus recoiled. He didn’t want to hear that.

She sighed. ‘Maybe he lost the fortune betting on Quiddich, or he ran off to the colonies. There are a lot of possible explanations.’

Remus’ stomach growled, and he shivered. ‘You’ve been searching for answers about... about your Master for two years now. You should add James Potter to your inquiries.’ He tugged the blanket up his shoulder. ‘I get the feeling that whatever happened to James happened to Sirius as well.’

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t think of a reason to deny him. ‘Okay.’

* * *

At the end of every month, Master Arthur called Hermione into his study to review the family finances. She had to account for the everyday expenditure that running of the house required and justify her every decision. They discussed Master Arthur’s pay check, Mistress Ginny’s savings for her Quiddich supplies, the food budget and the general upkeep of the house.

The most difficult conversation revolved around the werewolf.

‘I understand that Fred and George covered the upfront costs of this new slave,’ Arthur said, ‘but can we afford the upkeep?’

‘I believe so, Master.’ Hermione said, standing at attention in front of his desk. ‘He has been starved by his previous Masters, and so continuing a similar level of sustenance has thus far kept costs low.’

Arthur Weasley frowned deeply. ‘We can’t have that, no, make sure he receives the same allotment as the groundsmen.’

‘Of course, Sir.’ Hermione was obedient and loyal, but in her mind she debated the benefits. Her Master must have noticed, because he continued.

‘I won’t have my slaves performing at anything less than the optimum. I cannot stand a useless slave, and a Master that renders his slaves useless is no Master at all. Now, what is the werewolf good for?’

‘He has been assisting me in the experiments for Master Fred and Master George. He appears to have exceptional skills as a potioneer.’ There was no need to inform Master Arthur of Remus’ previous status as a Wizard and his education at Hogwarts, not unless he inquired.

‘Excellent. Take two more Galleons for the materials budget.’ Arthur said, surprising Hermione, but she pressed on.

‘He is aged, but he is still strong, Master.’ Hermione reported. ‘After he has recovered from the full moon he can be put to work as a groundsman and an undercook, provided the slave wards are reinforced against werewolves.’

‘I will see to it. Is he safe? Can he be trusted to be unchained?’

‘Yes, however, he should be chained during the week leading up to the full moon. You read my report on the feral-inducing potion, Master.’ That was only half of the reason she needed him in the dungeon, the other was so he could continue brewing and taking the experimental potions they developed.

‘Yes, yes.’ Arthur muttered, absentmindedly flicking through the stack of parchment on his desk. ‘I expected nothing better from Malfoy. Honestly, if the man cannot be bothered to cast the Cruciatus himself, he hardly deserves to hold a wand at all.’

The statement was almost treasonous, but Hermione knew better than to be anything less than agreeable. ‘Yes, Master.’

‘That reminds me. Aha, yes, here it is.’ He evidently found a slip of parchment buried under her report and gave it to her. It was an invitation memo, written in flowery script. ‘I have an inter-departmental evening dinner at the Malfoy Manor in one week and I’m expected to bring my own attendant. I expect you to be prepared and ready for side-along apparition by 6 o’clock sharp.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘One last thing. This werewolf, what is his name?’

‘Remus Lupin, Sir.’

Arthur nodded. ‘Thank you, Hermione. That will be all.’

She bowed low with exceptional form and exited the study silently.


	6. Chapter 6

One week later, Remus had been released from his chains in the dungeon and was shown his duties. Although his previous owners usually kept him in cells and stables, he adapted well to his position as a House slave. He was smart and a hard worker, and constantly found other work to do once his chores were finished. When Hermione had commented on this, he shrugged and muttered, ‘Because of what I am... no one has trusted me enough to put me to work before. I think I rather like being useful.’

His form left much to be desired. Hermione was required to correct his stance daily, repeating lessons she learnt at in the care of the Ministry at age seven. Remus never received that basic education of servitude. Every day, Hermione gave him lessons on when to stand, how to stand, how to serve, and explained the multitude of minor differences in behaviour that each context and expectation required.

There was no room in the slave quarters for Remus, so he continued sleeping in the dungeon. Without the length of chain fastening him to the wall, he was able to make better use of the space, organising the items stored there and creating a suitable brewing space.

The Weasley family was not afraid of the werewolf, which was a point of unexpected pride for Hermione. Of course, without the aid of the feral inducing potion the werewolf was no different to any other slave outside of the full moon, but this point, although well documented at the expense of mudblood slaves, had yet to reach all families in the higher levels of society, as Hermione knew from the many dinners she had attended at Sirius’ knee.

Her experiences there meant the upcoming inter-departmental dinner was familiar territory; however the preparations that needed to be made were extensive and exhausting.

‘I don’t understand.’ Remus said, sitting on the thin mattress of her bed. ‘It’s just a dinner. Your job is just to sit still and look pretty.’ He laughed. ‘You could actually accomplish it in your sleep.’

Hermione chose to ignore the hidden compliment and continued applying her eye makeup. Of course, the werewolf had no idea about the complexities of the evening ahead. He had never attended a dinner like this, at least from this end of the leash. She remembered her Lord Master Sirius instructing her the first time she was brought into society with him. She was fourteen and still small enough to sit between his legs and under the table. She was young, and the Black family had many other slaves to attend to the guests.

‘Your job is to watch and learn.’ Sirius had muttered to her. ‘And continue looking ravishing.’

She had watched the other slaves attentively, noticing how they anticipated their Master’s every move and want before the need even had a chance to become apparent. Some slaves were employed as entertainment, playing music or singing. All slaves held a unique responsibility to be both ever present yet completely invisible. She remembered once, at the Manor of another family, there arose a scandal in which a Master had cast a disillusionment charm over his slaves. This action was quickly condemned as distasteful, and proved that the Master could not properly train his slaves. Hermione however, had heard the truth, that one charmed slave had stolen jewellery from a guest’s purse. The slave was summarily executed, although someone suggested that the slave was acting under the Imperius curse cast by their Master.

Once, when accompanying Sirius to a garden party, she commented on the lavishness of the decorations. It was magnificent. Golden birds floated above the crowds, slaves at every table created food beautiful as works of art. The flowers were charmed to play little tunes like ringing bells when they were sniffed. Instead of statues, slaves posed nude on podiums in intricate positions around the gardens.

‘It’s beautiful, Master.’ Hermione had said.

Sirius had shrugged. ‘It’s pompous. This is something you have to understand, Hermione, my dear. When wizards get together we can’t resist showing off. Always out to prove you’re better and richer and more impressive than everyone else.’

He then shifted to stand behind her, tucking her against his front with an arm around her waist, with the familiar sensation of his groin pressing against her backside. ‘I bet with half a challenge I could have every wizard here dropping his trousers and boasting about the size of his cock.’

Hermione had stifled a laugh and reached behind her, her hand trailing from his hip to in between their bodies. ‘What a competition that would be to witness.’ She had said, cupping the length of his cock.

Sirius had chucked darkly and led her by the hand to behind some nearby bushes. He pushed her to the soft ground and covered her body with his own.

‘Master–’ she gasped, wanting to protest at having sex so close to the other guests.

‘I always hated garden parties.’ Sirius had muttered into her neck. He had pinned her to the grass with his hips and quickly divulged them of their clothing. He was beautiful in the soft light of the garden, and she dared to reach up and touch his face softly. She slid the hand between them to guide his cock home into her warm centre. He had taken her there in the garden with soft grunts and it wasn’t long before other Masters and Mistresses follow Sirius’ lead and paired off with each other or their slaves. That day, Hermione had learned the valuable skill of showing off. Confidence was key to manipulating the environment of high society. She applied that same lesson to Arthur Weasley’s interdepartmental dinner.

To improve her resale value, Hermione had to increase the social standing of the Weasleys in society. They had dismal finances, a large family and Arthur worked in the Department of Muggle Affairs at the Ministry. Already their position in society was dangerously low. The unfortunate truth was this: the majority of the value of a slave was dictated, not by their skills, but by their providence. It had taken days of careful consideration for Hermione to determine the best impression to present for her image and the image of her House. She could not be lavishly jewelled like she had been in the Black family. The Weasleys did not have the gemstones that most pleasure slaves were decorated with to mark their position. Nor did they have an excess of slaves that could demonstrate wealth. Instead, she would be presenting quality over quantity. She was trained by the highly praised family Black. She needed to show high society that while the Weasleys might not have much, they had the best. With some miracle, she might even prove to the other Masters that the Weasleys preferred it that way.

‘There is a lot more to being a good attendant that sitting still and looking pretty.’ Hermione shot back at Remus. Remus held up his hands and rocked backwards. The frame of her bed made a dreadful squeaking noise.

The evening was framed as a work event, as indicated by the invitation. She decided against the revealing, beautiful robes she had been wearing when she was taken from the Black House. Instead, she selected a black dress with a high neckline that covered everything but her arms and her collar. It was form fitting and looked just as attractive when she kneeled as when she stood. Her makeup and hair was tasteful and alluring, enough to catch just a little attention, but not enough to justify their eyes that would inevitably trail over her the rest of the night. Her only concession to jewellery was four slim gold bands, one around each of her ankles and wrists, calling attention to her position but reminding the watcher that she belonged to the Weasley House.

‘Half in presentation, half in demonstration.’ Hermione told Remus. She turned to him, a smirk on her painted lips. ‘Do you have any idea what the difference is between a bow to the patriarch of the family differs from the bow to a lower member?’

She performed both in quick succession. Remus couldn’t catch the small alteration.

‘Demonstrating one when the situation required the other could be considered insubordination, and most families punish it with two minutes of the Cruciatus.’ She informed him.

‘Oh.’ Remus said, resigned.

‘Exactly.’ Hermione stated. She handed him a piece of parchment. ‘Here are the tasks that need to be completed in my absence. Finish them yourself or use the other slaves, I don’t mind.’

Remus’ eyes tracked the long list. ‘You do these every night?’

She levelled him with an unimpressed stare. ‘There are fewer tasks here than there would if Master Arthur was home.’ She glanced at the clock on her single shelf. Ten minutes to six.

‘I should go downstairs.’

‘Wait.’ Remus stood and touched her shoulder. He folded his lengthy frame downwards enough to look her in the face. The need for the movement surprised her. He was rarely standing right in front of her; he usually kneeled, sat or walked behind her at a short distance. Now she could tell he was actually significantly taller than she was, but he compensated easily so he could look at her straight on.

‘Is it safe? Is it safe for you to go there?’

‘Of course it’s not.’ Hermione pulled away from him. ‘Dealing directly with the Masters is never safe. It only takes one drunk wizard and a single curse.’

‘Then don’t go. Surely there’s another way.’ Remus insisted.

‘I don’t have a choice.’ Hermione said fiercely. ‘You’ve been chained for thirty years, but your slavery has only ever been physical. You still think you’re a free wizard, don’t you?’ He swallowed, but couldn’t deny her claim. ‘Well you’re not. You’re a slave now, and this is what we do. We obey.’

* * *

After the formalities of the introductions had been completed and the party of wizards employed at the Ministry had taken their seats at the long, imposing table in the Malfoy Manor, Hermione took her place standing behind her Lord Master. Her careful preparations had paid off. Without looking directly, she knew at least three of the wizards seated at the table had taken their time looking her over, carefully appraising her body. One of them was the man seated at the head of the table, one Bartemius Crouch Junior, the Minister for Magic himself. He darted his tongue out to lick his lips while he stared at her.

Her outward presentation was serene and inviting, but inwardly she was fuming. How dare Remus suggest he abandon her duties just because there might be risk? Did he have any idea of her responsibilities to her House?

He should be grateful, Hermione thought bitterly. She was going to use this opportunity to continue gathering evidence about her Master’s murder, and because of his insistence, she would also be investigating the fate of his other childhood friend. It was the ideal setting for reconnaissance, even if she did have a choice, she would have chosen to attend, purely for the benefit of interacting with the slaves of the Malfoy House. On the death of Sirius, some of his slaves had been disseminated to the families of his cousins. She saw a few familiar faces serving at the table of the Malfoys.

She performed her duties exceptionally. Master Wealsley never went without on his plate or in his cup, and the instant he was finished, the dirty dishes and cutlery was cleared away.

The one thing wizards could agree on was that they didn’t trust each other, and they trusted each other’s slaves even less. Before the conversation could move from sociable to business matters, the Masters adjourned to the drawing room and all the slaves, including the attendants of the guests, were employed in cleaning up after them. Once the dining hall itself was restored to perfection, all the dishes and slaves were removed to the kitchen in the slave wing.

As always happened when slaves were together without a Master’s supervision, they got rowdy. Some of the more daring slaves had opened up moonshine and passed it around. Hermione was horrified that they would impair their thinking while still on duty. She didn’t participate.

One male slave, drunk on moonshine and a job well done, grabbed her by the shoulders and started kissing her. Hermione jerked backwards and he laughed freely.

‘Come on.’ He whined playfully. ‘Everything above the collar is fair game.’ He bent his head to the sensitive skin of her neck, just on the edge of her collar. She sighed a little gust of air. Hermione was proud of her training as a pleasure slave, it wasn’t her fault she hadn’t been permitted to perform her talents on her Masters recently. She bent her mouth to the slave’s earlobe and gently teased at it with her teeth. The other slave gasped and kissed her soundly on the mouth again.

He placed a strong hand on her shoulder and the other on her face and pushed her down his body. ‘Well, everything about _your_ collar.’

Hermione froze. ‘What?’

The other slave laughed. ‘Everyone knows you’re the best pleasure slave this side of the channel that isn’t part Veela.’ He tucked a ringlet of hair behind her ear. ‘You’re wasted on Master Weasley. Come on, you miss doing your job. Don’t you want to show me what you can do?’

She shoved at his chest. ‘Not any more, asshole.’

‘You know I’m right.’ The man said, his grip tightening on her shoulder.

‘That’s enough!’ a commanding voice quietened the party. An older woman with grey hair took Hermione’s hand and pulled her away from the male slave. ‘Come with me.’ She commanded.

‘Yes, Mistress.’ Hermione obeyed quickly.

‘Oh I’m no Mistress.’ The older woman says, and when she turns to talk to Hermione, she can see the ornate black and silver collar encircling her neck.

‘Oh.’ Hermione says dumbly. Slaves don’t often get to an advanced age, and a slave with grey hair who hadn’t outlived their usefulness was a rare sight. The status of the collar and the way she commanded the male slave told Hermione she was the Head Slave of the Malfoy Household.

‘I understand you are the Head Slave for the Weasleys?’ The older lady said. She brought Hermione to a stop in the quiet of the laundry rooms and set to work folding the washed hand towels. Hermione followed suit.

‘I am.’

‘How old are you, girl?’

‘Twenty-two.’

The woman nodded, but surprise was still written on her features. ‘A Head Slave at twenty-two. You must be something special. If I know Mistress Weasley, and I do, she did not give up control of her family easily.’

‘You know my Lord Masters?’ It was Hermione’s turn to be shocked.

‘I was her governess when she was in the nursery.’ The old woman smiled. ‘You don’t get to be my age without knowing everyone who is worth knowing.’

‘Of course. Then you must have known my previous Lord Master. Sirius Black.’ Hermione said the words lightly, but she watched very carefully for a response.

‘Oh yes, I knew the Black Family.’ The old woman said. ‘I served them for some years, in fact. Well before you were purchased, my dear, I don’t expect you to remember me.’ She paused for a moment, but before Hermione could think of a way to question her, she continued. ‘Terrible shame what happened to him.’

This was it. This old woman must have her contacts everywhere amongst the slaves. ‘What did happen to him?’ Hermione asked. Her voice barely shook.

‘Well, with the male heir dead, it’s the end of a great lineage of Wizards.’ The old woman tutted. ‘It’s only through wives and cousins now. Pity to lose that much history. Mistress Walburga did try to prevent it, you know. Heir and a spare, but it still wasn’t enough.’

Of course, the old woman was more interested in the family tree than the facts of his murder. ‘Yes, it was a shame.’ Hermione said. Then, taking a risk that relied on all the great upper class families being interrelated, Hermione said, ‘Like the family Potter.’

‘Yes, exactly like the Family Potter.’ The woman exclaimed. ‘One of the oldest families in history, what a shame. Of course, they could trace their family back to the 1200’s, did you know? I served them too, long before you were born, my dear. I told Mistress Potter, I told her, “Heir and a spare”, I did. But they only ever had the one boy. Doted on him something awful, they did. I was his nursemaid, but they hardly needed someone else to care for him.’ The old woman smiled fondly at the memory, but then she sobered. ‘I must be grateful they sold me on once he went to school, years before it happened.’

Hermione’s ears pricked up. ‘What happened?’

‘The boy grew up, took over the House once the Master had died, and, hmmm, what would it have been, perhaps 20 years ago... The whole House, gone. Just gone. Nothing could be said for their properties or heirlooms or wealth at all.’ The woman’s voice dropped and her eyes sparkled, like she was sharing juicy gossip.

‘What about their slaves?’ Hermione asked. If they were sold on to other relations like she was, there could be someone she could find that would know what happened.

The old woman shook her head. ‘All vanished. It was quite the scandal.’

‘Does anyone know what happened to them?’

‘Oh, the Masters won’t talk about it.’ The older slave said. ‘But I heard something happened in Godric’s Hollow that night. One of the slaves of my Household at the time was to pick up a package from the post office there, but she said the entire town was roped off and every building was evacuated. No muggles or slaves were allowed past the guards, not even those belonging to the Minister.’

That behaviour was beyond strange, Hermione mused. In her understanding, slaves were no different from animals or furniture – they were useful, and it was pointless to alter behaviour in order to accommodate them. If slaves really meant nothing to the wizards, why would they go to so much effort to hide whatever happened to the Potter family from them?

‘How peculiar.’ Hermione said.

If Sirius was killed in a similar way... that would explain why there had been no evidence, no rumours from the slaves. He was there one day and gone the next, and Hermione had been unsuccessful trying to find out what happened to him. That was why she had been chasing dead leads for the last year. No one would talk because no one had any information. Because of Remus’ insistence that she broaden her search, she finally had a new angle to explore.

She was so happy she could have kissed him.

So she did.

* * *

Remus sat eerily still in the dungeon waiting for Hermione to return. He completed all the tasks she had assigned, but couldn’t rest without knowing she was safe back at the Burrow. His sensitive hearing caught the pop of Apparation from the above rooms and his breathing calmed when he heard her voice bidding Master Arthur a good night.

He was about to extinguish the single candle in his dark room when the doors to the dungeon creak open.

‘Hermione, are you okay?’ he asked.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she crouched down to his level, leaned in and kissed him.

Remus was shocked. He didn’t move, but Hermione continued with her sweet torture. He could taste moonshine. Her lips moved against his slack ones and a hand cupped his jaw. He pulled his head back a fraction.

‘What are you doing?’ he whispered into the air between them.

‘Want you.’ Hermione groaned. She pushed him in the chest, sharp enough that he had to catch himself on his elbows to prevent himself falling to the floor. She climbed on top of him and continued kissing him, hot and wet. She broke away to trace his scars with her lips – down his face and neck.

It was the first time he had been touched so gently in years. Something tugged in his gut like a portkey. His body craved kindness, but this was something different.

‘You were... ah, you were angry at me when you left.’ Remus muttered.

‘And now I’m not.’ Hermione replied into the crook of his neck

Confused, he tried to sit up, but Hermione pushed him down.

‘No, wait-’ he started, but Hermione’s hand trailing to his pelt regardless of his protestations. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I want you.’ She pressed a kiss to the hollow behind his ear. ‘Don’t you want me?’

‘Not like this.’ He finally wriggled enough to shove her away with his arms and legs. He scrambled to pull his legs to his chest, putting some distance between their skin. ‘What the fuck was that about?’

Hermione looked like she’d been hit with a stunning spell. ‘I was just trying to do something nice for you.’

‘Chocolate is nice.’ Remus replied. ‘This is... I don’t know what this is, treating me like I’m just another one of your Masters?’ At the lack of her response, he continued. ‘Can you please tell me what happened at that dinner that caused you to change your opinion of me so quickly?’

Of course, Hermione realised. He didn’t know the good news which earned him the reward. She smiled at him, and her hair fell over her shoulder in a way that made him swallow a lump in his throat.

‘You were right. Master Black’s disappearance isn’t the first. The Potter family vanished as well.’ She said. ‘But it’s strange. The Masters are hiding something from the slaves... I never thought they’d act that way.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ Remus replied. ‘You’ve been raised at their heels to be loyal and believe and obey everything they tell you without hesitation. For you, it is unthinkable that they would hide something from you because it is unthinkable that you would work against them. But the world is bigger than you imagine, Miss Granger, and far more complex.’

‘Still,’ Hermione continued, frowning at his declaration, ‘I have a new angle of investigation now.’ She leaned forward, and her scent filled the air. ‘Thanks to you.’

She kissed at the corner of his mouth, nudging him to respond.

In a moment of weakness, he cradled the back of her head when they kissed again. Hermione’s lips parted and her tongue touched the scar bisecting Remus’ upper lip. His hand clenched in her hair.

With a chuckle, Hermione pressed their bodies together, feeling the electric warmth of his bare skin through her dress. She nuzzled into his neck and sighed contentedly. Her hands wrapped around the base of his skull and rubbed against the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, but knew that if she did, she would only be disappointed that it wasn’t long down to his shoulders.

A sibilant sigh escaped her. Anyone else would have mistaken it for a hiss, but Remus knew that name.

_Sirius_

Remus pulled away, face contorted in a pained grimace.

Confused, Hermione pressed their foreheads together. His green eyes were squeezed shut.

‘Is something wrong?’ she whispered.

‘I’ll thank you not to think of my former friend who turned out to be a rapist while you’re kissing me.’ Remus said. His voice was thick was bitterness and anger.

Hermione’s anger flared up in response, but she immediately felt guilty. She had made a habit of thinking about Sirius Black during sex with the Masters Weasley. She kept him in her mind to remember her training and be responsive to their touch, but this was different. Remus wasn’t demanding sex; he was mostly reluctant to participate in her chaste kisses. If she went any further, she would be offering something freely that she was ordered to reserve for her Masters. It wouldn’t be training, or obligation. It would be love.

‘In fact, I would rather not do this at all if it’s some sort of... reward.’ Remus swallowed.

Hermione withdrew. Remus had to adjust the position of the pelt in his lap. She glanced at the low burning candle and the hour marks carved into the wax.

‘It’s late.’ She said. ‘I should go.’

Remus gave a self-depreciating smile and took one of her hands in between hers. ‘Thank you for stopping. I know it’s not something you have much experience with.’ He quickly kissed the backs of her fingers. ‘Good night, Miss Granger.’

She smiled, pleased to see he wasn’t disgusted by her. ‘Good night, Mister Lupin.’


	7. Chapter 7

With the air cleared between the two of them, they were free to work on the Wolfsbane potion together. Despite the ineffective potion of the first month, they made surprisingly quick progress, brewing and testing the next variation of the potion throughout the week leading up to the second full moon.

Again, Hermione watched from the stairs as the werewolf transformed in fits and screams of agony. Once fully transformed, the beast collapsed and was still on the ground.

Terrified, Hermione watched for any movement.

‘R-remus?’ she called, her hand clutching the smooth bezoar. She didn’t want to go down there and put her hand anywhere near the jaws of the creature. But she would, if Remus was dying.

They had taken precautions and shortened the chain attaching him to the wall, and then also drawn a line drawn on the floor – a semicircle marking the full extension he could reach. Hermione stayed a good four feet from the line, terrified of the jaws that were bared. He wasn’t moving. The animal was twisted on the ground, frozen in an uncomfortable position. Its amber eyes were wide open and tracked her across the room, but it didn’t move.

The silver-grey fur rose and fell with each breath.

He wasn’t dying, Hermione realised, just frozen, paralysed in a full body lock. The wolf was paralysed, now she just had to see if the other purpose of the potion was successful.

‘Remus, can you hear me?’

The werewolf stared at her and blinked slowly.

‘Right, I mean, um. One blink for yes, two blinks for no. Are you there?’

He blinked once.

‘Can you move your paw?’

Two blinks in quick succession.

‘Are you sure you’re in control?’

The wolf gave a frustrated huff and blinked once.

Now she needed to assess his awareness, put the beast truly to the test.

She wrote the word “bezoar” on parchment and placed the named item, along with a few other objects on hand in a row. Keeping her distance, she held up the parchment to his eyes.

‘Can you read that?’ she asked.

One slow blink.

She pulled the parchment back. ‘What does it say?’

The werewolf’s eyes tracked down to the smooth bezoar and held there until Hermione pointed at the silver knife next to it. ‘This one?’ she asked.

He huffed in frustration and blinked twice, no. She pointed at the bezoar and he blinked yes, and then looked back at her.

Hermione smiled. ‘Hello, Remus.’

The beautiful amber eyes stared back at her.

She quizzed his reasoning and memory and intellect with yes and no questions until his blinks became long and slow and instead it became more of an effort to open his eyes rather than close them. His muscles remained tense and frozen, but his eyes showed he was tired. It would be an uncomfortable night, but at least he would have his mind.

* * *

In the morning, Remus was in so much pain he could barely move his fingers. His muscles screamed when Hermione pulled his limbs into a more comfortable position. It took an hour of slowly working his fingers back and forth for him to be able to ball his hands into fists and loosen them comfortably.

‘Do you remember last night?’ Hermione asked.

Remus’ head moved a fraction in a nod, then stilled against the pain of his spine.

‘You were in control.’ Hermione said in a hushed voice. ‘The potion was effective.’

‘I think, ah-!’ Remus gasped as his muscles seized. ‘I think it still needs some work.’

‘We could dial back the potency of the paralytics if we increase the frequency of intake.’ Hermione theorized.

Remus’ fingers wrapped around the cooled sausage on the plate before him and brought it to his mouth. ‘You think that if I had control enough to move my eyes I might have tamed my whole body.’

‘Didn’t it feel like that to you?’ Hermione asked. ‘You were present and cognizant, I could see.’

Remus shook his head, not in denial, but in thought. ‘It would be delicate work. We would need an element of the potion that could respond only to a higher level of thought.’

That sounded familiar to Hermione. She left his side to flick through a textbook on advanced potioneering until she found the page she remembered.

‘Here.’ She said, thrusting it under his nose. Remus recoiled back to stop his greasy fingers leaving marks on the page. ‘Dried Egyptian dragon heartstring. It has just been made legal a couple of months ago. It’s highly regulated but-’

‘Hermione this is perfect.’ Remus said.

‘We can’t purchase it.’ Hermione said. ‘You need special dispensation to purchase it through legal means. The Ministry won’t permit it for something as low as a werewolf.’

Instead of dulling, Remus’ eyes glittered. ‘The black market would still have stock. It would be cheaper, too, because the consequences for being found with it would be reduced.’

The excitement in Hermione’s stomach was replaced with a ball of ice. ‘You want me to buy something from the black market?’

‘Knockturn Alley would have plenty of opportunities. It’s half run by slaves, it’s the perfect underground-’

‘Remus I can’t!’

At her outburst, he stopped his investigation of the textbook and finally looked up at her. Her eyes were wide with fear and she had her hand clapped over her mouth.

‘I don’t break the rules, I don’t lie to my Masters, I certainly don’t buy items illegally.’ Her face was flushed with more than mere bashfulness. There was anger there, and indignation, and more than a little denial. ‘You don’t understand. You speak treason and you give me hope that I could be magic and you never once stop to think of the consequences. We should be killed for even discussing magic like it’s within our grasp.’

Remus stood on aching muscles. ‘Then you’re wrong. You do break the rules, you’re doing it right now, talking to me. If you really cared about following the Masters you would have had me killed months ago.’ He closed the textbook in his hands and held it up to her. ‘This experimentation, your investigation, the way you treat the other slaves. It all shows me that you are not obedient. You are ruthless, and clever, and more than a bit scary.’

Hermione glared at him, unsure if he was insulting her or not.

‘You stop at nothing to get what you want. It just so happens that sometimes what you want is serving the Masters. Other times it’s doing something incredible.’

He gave the tome a little waggle and she took it with a put-upon sigh.

‘I’m not going to tell you to buy the heartstring.’ Remus said. ‘Do what you want. You have already done more than enough for me by giving me back my mind.’

‘I was only acting under the authority of my Masters.’ Hermione said. ‘Speaking of which, can you walk yet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Masters Fred and George are expecting a report before breakfast.’ Hermione turned and marched up the staircase into the house, expecting the werewolf to follow her.

* * *

He still needed reminding to stand in position for the half an hour it took for the Twins to make it downstairs for breakfast. Hermione had other duties to attend to for the morning, mainly assisting Cook with the dining table and setting out Mrs Weasley’s clothing for the day. Usually Hermione managed the laundry of the ladies of the house with Nippy assisting the clothing of the men, but Ginny was spending the week training with her Quiddich team overseas. Secretly, Hermione was pleased that neither Mrs Weasley nor Ginny required her to act as maid by dressing them. Such duties she considered beneath her station as a Head Slave. Besides, it reminded her too much of the quiet intimacy of assisting Master Sirius, carefully wrapping his fine body in finer robes.

‘Well.’ Master George said, clambering down the staircase and circling the werewolf. ‘Looks like something went well last night. Do you see this, Fred?’

‘Yes, George.’ The other twin said, right on his heels. ‘No fresh wounds. Something must have gone right last night.’

Remus was silent, keenly aware that he could not talk unless asked a direct question.

‘And he’s up and about. He was barely useful at all for the week after the last full moon.’ Fred noted.

‘How about that.’ George thumped Remus on the arm in a friendly, though painful, manner. He turned around and hollered up the staircase. ‘Mum! We doubled the werewolf’s capacity!’

_No you didn’t._ Remus thought. _Hermione did. I did. You had nothing to do with it._ He watched the two brothers with carefully concealed disdain. These were the great Masters that must be obeyed? These were the boys that reminded Hermione of Sirius Black? His old friend must have never grown from being childish and selfish.

‘Oh that is excellent news.’ The mother descended the staircase happily. ‘I wasn’t very happy with him being useless two weeks of the month.’

Hermione emerged from the kitchen, serving out the plates of food onto the dining table.

‘Hermione, get over here.’ Fred ordered.

George slung an arm around her waist and bodily steered her to stand in front of the werewolf.

The close relationship between the slaves was hidden in the company of the Masters. The Head slave looked at him clinically, and Remus held his position without flinching.

‘I’ve never seen any werewolf healthy enough to stand the morning after a full moon.’ Mrs Weasley said.

Remus’ interest sharply peaked. How many werewolves had this homemaker known?

‘How did he go last night?’ George asked, squeezing Hermione gently for a response.

‘I watched him most of the night. He was paralysed and tense, but cognitively aware. The wolf could read and answer questions by responding with his eyes.’

Remus hadn’t realized it at the time, but Hermione must have barely slept through the night. She was present when he fell asleep and was already dressed and had food prepared when he woke up human again with sun’s first light.

‘Completely immobile you say?’ Mrs Weasley questioned.

‘Yes Mistress.’

‘Well that’s good. Much safer that way.’

Hermione met Remus’ eye, certain he was going to protest. He was a silent object in this conversation, and he was certainly not used to it. Instead he watched her carefully, waiting for whatever she was going to do next.

‘How soon can you begin production?’ George asked.

‘Master,’ Hermione began hesitantly, ‘I believe some slight modification of the potion is necessary still.’

Fred groaned loudly. ‘Isn’t it good enough already?’

‘The werewolf’s muscles are damaged by the constant tension.’ Hermione reported. ‘A careful addition of-’

‘What’s all this then?’ The patriarch of the House joined them, smiling at his family. His eyes passed over the slaves like they were wallpaper.

‘The Wolfsbane potion is almost ready for production.’ George told him excitedly. ‘Hermione just needs another-’

‘Blimey, was the full moon really last night?’ Arthur asked. ‘This man looks fit as a fiddle.’ He eyeballed the slave and was the first one to talk directly to the werewolf. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore, sir.’ Remus kept his answers short. The less he said the less he could get in trouble.

‘Could you go about your duties?’

‘I don’t think I could swing an axe today, sir.’ Remus said reluctantly, hoping he wasn’t compromising all the work they had done. ‘But some of my other duties, yes sir. I could complete them, but slowly.’

‘Slow as a snail is faster than doing nothing for a week! Ha! How about that, eh?’ Arthur clapped his sons on the shoulders. ‘Good work you two. Hermione, anything more you need to fine tune the potion? You have my full support. Excellent work, yes. I have a letter to write.’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Molly said. ‘You’re to support your daughter’s Quiddich game in Bulgaria today.’ She held up a finger to cut off Arthur’s protestations before they even began. ‘You can write a letter when we get there. Everyone hurry up! The Portkey leaves in half an hour.’

‘Everyone?’ A sleep roughened voice asked. Ron was leaning against the doorway to the dining room, eyes sunken and hair a mess. Still, he was dressed well, with Nippy at his heels.

‘Yes, boys you’re coming too.’ Molly Weasley said shortly.

Immediately the twins protested. ‘But Mum we were going to run the shop today!’

‘You were complaining about how quiet the shop was just yesterday. I’m sure you can take a day off.’ She hurried her family to the table to eat their breakfast.

‘That’s very bad for our reputation to close just for a game.’ George said.

‘Very bad indeed.’ Fred agreed. ‘We’re respectable businessmen. Besides, it’s only Ginny.’

Arthur cuffed the two of them upside the head. ‘I won’t have you talking like that. Now then.’ He turned to Hermione, who hadn’t moved from her respectable distance without being dismissed. ‘Hermione can manage the shop for the day, right?’

‘Yes, Master.’ Hermione said.

The breakfast table was full of chatter and rush. ‘Have Cook bundle us up some lunches.’ Molly ordered.

The familiar lurch at a command given at too late notice to complete to a high standard settled in her stomach. Hermione brought Remus into the kitchen to help the preparations. Cook was frantic at the command, trying desperately to salvage enough food for five people for the day with only fifteen minutes to prepare. The breakfasts set aside for the slaves were commandeered and packed away for the Masters and the pantry was raided.

Remus looked up at Hermione over the pots of gravy and sausages. ‘I understand the Weasley shop is in Diagon alley. That’s a coincidence.’

Hermione shot him an unimpressed look. ‘Don’t push your luck, werewolf.’

Remus gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I have never felt this alive the morning after a full moon. When my bones feel better I think I could dance.’

‘Do us all a favour.’ Hermione said. ‘Instead of dancing you should pick up an axe.’

* * *

As soon as the family departed Hermione took the floo network to Diagon alley. It was particularly cold and she was bundled up with a coat and scarf. She always hesitated to wrap a scarf around her neck. It felt dishonest to hide her collar from view. But it was the fashion for both slaves and masters alike. It was difficult to distinguish between the two when they were in the winter garb.

Except for the Masterless slaves. They were abandoned and left to die on the streets of London, thin and fragile, still collared but without anyone caring for them. The best they could hope for was a quick death, or to earn a few knuts doing illegal work on the black market. There was no hope for a Masterless slave.

She held the keys to the Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezies tight in her hands. Around her wrists were the charms and enchanted pieces of jewellery that would protect her against the booby trapped joke shop. It was designed to be merciless against outsiders, and without a wand to protect her, she relied on the charmed objects to identify her as a friend.

Hermione approached the store and unlocked the door. The wards retreated at the proximity of her charms. As she lit the lamps and arranged the shopfront, the shop itself seemed to respond to the opening by stretching a little higher and prouder, and the hidden forces uncurled from threatening to cheerful. The shop was most popular with children and almost all of their clientele were at Hogwarts for schooling, and most of the rest were attending the Quiddich game. She didn’t intend to make many sales. Even the normally bustling alley beyond the window was far quieter usual.

The day slipped past as Hermione found ways to make herself useful. She even made the occasional sale, mostly presents that were giftwrapped for homesick first years or parents doing early Christmas shopping to fill stockings.

It was nearing lunch, and Hermione was doing accounts, ensuring the marked prices had a safe profit margin on production costs, when an unaccompanied slave walked through the door.

That was strange enough for Hermione to put down her quill. A slave by himself had no reason to enter a joke shop unless given explicit instructions by his Master, and most Masters preferred to make the enjoyable purchases themselves and leave the menial shopping to a competent slave. She watched him carefully.

He was a slave, yes, marked by the unremarkable collar around his neck, but – and she started – at his heels was a large black dog.

‘Hey!’ Hermione called sharply. ‘No animals inside the store.’

The slave looked at her, eyes wide. ‘He’s not my dog. He’s my Master’s familiar.’

He must have belonged to one of those ancient, unfashionable wizard families, then, the ones that still used familiars as security against their slaves.

‘Well, what might be a joke to humans can be lethal to dogs, and I’m not having its death and your beating coming down on the heads of my Masters.’ Hermione said sharply. ‘Take it outside.’

The young man pleaded with her with his eyes, but Hermione did not relent.

Finally, the slave did some complicated hand movement and the dog sniffed at his hand and trotted out the door. The mangy thing lay down in front of the open door, blocking the entrance with its body. Its head rested on its paw like it was tired but it looked inside with ears pointed high. It was blocking the doorway, almost like he was guarding his Master’s slave from leaving without him.

Hermione looked back at the young man. The slave was skinny, but not overly so, and his unfashionable robes hung ill-fitting off his frame. He stared at her with one eyebrow raised.

‘You scratching?’

Hermione recoiled at the slave slang. The word was humiliating. It meant to be rented out to another Master for work. To scratch out a living in someone else’s House meant there was no profitable work to be done in your own. It was humiliating for both the slave and the House they belonged to. It meant your Masters were foolish and you were useless. More than that, if you were scratching your loyalties were divided between Master and employer. Serving two houses was barely better than none. A slave with divided loyalty was no good for a slave at all.

‘No.’ She answered sharply.

The other slave held up his hands and flicked one of them to the side. The quick gesture was familiar to her. It meant something to most slaves who circled the markets and auction houses, a “sorry” that could be tossed your way as you were led offstage, but could be easily mistaken for just rattling chains. Hermione knew the slang and gestures, the secret language that only slaves knew, but she found it beneath her. She only ever associated with her Lord Masters. She did not align herself with the rabble of slaves any more than she did with Muggles. So Hermione let the gesture bounce off her without reception, and merely stared at the other slave impassively.

The other slave stepped a little closer, his eyes darting quickly to his Master’s familiar. He angled his body so he was blocking her view of the doorway, or perhaps stopping the eyes from outside from looking in and seeing their conversation.

‘I heard you have a new product.’ The slave said.

‘New products are always displayed in the shopfront-’

‘No, it’s. It’s a new one, a potion. For subhumans. For-’ he made the symbol for werewolf and tapped it against his chest, a circle and an animal followed one after the other. The gestures were small and hidden from anyone outside.

Hermione gaped at him. How could this slave possibly know about the Wolfsbane potion? Or maybe his Masters must have heard about the Malfoy’s version of the potion that extended the cycle and decided doing business with a Weasley Head Slave was much more preferable than business with Lucius Malfoy. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Hermione replied, her heart hammering in her chest.

‘Come on, I know you must be their Head slave, a pretty collar like that. And Weasleys talk.’ He shrugged like the simple fact explained everything. ‘You made a potion to reduce the effect of the full moon.’

‘No,’ Hermione replied quickly. Seeing the boy’s sceptical face, she amended her answer, ‘I mean, not completely. Not yet. Any potion you may have heard about is still in development.’

The slave smiled triumphantly at her denial and accidental admission. He leant across the counter to her. ‘So it does exist. I need to buy the recipe.’

‘Obviously it’s not for sale yet. My Masters-’

‘You don’t have to get the Masters involved.’ The slave interrupted and gestured wildly. ‘My Master’s familiar is here, so you know I’m lock.’

_Lock._ Real, serious, final. Because nothing in a slave’s life was true until the new lock was closed on them.

‘I was sent here by my Masters. Your potion could be, well, it could be everything we dreamed about. I need that potion. It, it’s. Please. I know it won’t be long until you have full production, but we can’t wait another month! I’ll pay full price again once you’re selling it.’ His voice rose to a point that his Master’s familiar must have been able to hear. Hermione’s eyes flicked back to the dog. It was watching her, its satellite ears curved forward at full attention, but it didn’t respond. The Masters must have made this order lock.

What circumstances could have made the household so desperate for her half effective Wolfsbane potion? She wondered. A bitten child, perhaps? A favourite werewolf slave they wanted to tame? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t give him the potion.

‘I’ll pay you.’

The boy slave pulled a purse from within his threadbare robes and emptied it out on the bench. Galleons spilled forth and one of almost rolled off the table. The slave caught it and placed it back in the centre. Hermione’s eyes widened as she counted the golden coins. It was plenty, enough to buy anything she wanted on the black market. And better still, it would be invisible money. No product changed hands, only a piece of information, there was no paper trail leading to her.

The other slave met her eyes and she was left with a choice.

_You would have made a fine Gryffindor_ Remus had told her once. She could do something brave and reckless. She could take the money.

‘Come on, do the smart thing.’ The slave said. She could be clever like a Ravenclaw and earn double the Galleons for her creation.

_You have my full support_ Master Arthur had said. She could be crafty, and use that command if she was caught to twist her way out of trouble.

That left only one Hogwarts house, Hufflepuff. Loyalty. Loyalty to who? The Weasleys? Master Sirius? Remus? A tiny, treacherous part of her mind whispered to her – she could be loyal to her own purposes.

She sold him the recipe.

Hermione wrote out the instructions carefully on a fresh piece of parchment. She didn’t need to consult her notes – her memory was too perfect for that – but she didn’t mention the Egyptian Dragon Heartstring. Not only could this slave not have anything illegal to implicate her, but it would prevent against his copy of the potion being sold on, because her final version would be superior.

She could use the invisible money to get a supply of the heartstring purely for Remus. It would be illegal, but untraceable once it was dissolved into the potion. She would do this because she wanted to, because it suited her purposes to have him comfortable, she wanted him to be happy, and she wanted to prove her own ability.

‘Thank you, thank you.’ The slave murmured.

He took the piece of parchment with shaking hands, rolled it gently and tucked it close to his body. As Hermione watched it disappear beneath his robes she wished, not for the first time, she could cast any one of the secret keeping spells that the twins knew, parchment that could vanish or only reveal itself only to those with the password.

‘I’ll be back. I’ll be back after the full moon?’ He waited for her nod. They would be producing, marketing and selling in line with the full moon, making sure information about the results spread a little more every month. ‘And I’ll pay whatever your asking price is again.’

‘You’ll bring that parchment with you.’ Hermione ordered. ‘And we’ll destroy it, lock?’

‘Lock.’

The slave boy put out his hand for Hermione to shake. She took it and he smiled, thanking her again before he moved towards the door.

At the door the black dog stood up and peered into the shop, watching suspiciously as Hermione gathered up the gold coins into the purse. The slave boy walked to the dog and held his hand at the dog’s snout, presumably for the familiar to bite or lick depending on how well he had been behaving. Instead, the dog sniffed the offered hand then looked straight at Hermione with grey eyes.

As soon as the door closed and the boy and dog left, Hermione shuddered, releasing a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding since the boy took the parchment. She looked down at the scattered gold coins.

The Weasley family would remain in Bulgaria for most, if not all of the evening, she had no schedule to keep. She would close up the shop on time so as not to arouse suspicion then disappear into Knockturn Alley and purchase Egyptian Dragon heartstring.

* * *

Remus was grateful that the Weasley family had left the house for the day. He needed to cease his work frequently to sit and gather his strength or stretch out a cramping muscle. If he was under the watchful eye of Mistress Molly he wouldn’t have had the nerve to stop and would likely have collapsed under the strain.

Still, he was productive. He couldn’t swing the axe like Hermione said he should, but he did gather kindling from the orchard and stacked it in a pile in his dungeon. The other slaves hadn’t expected Remus to be able to carry out his duties the day after the full moon anyway, so he had enough time to clear out an area of the dungeon for his own benefit.

Hermione arrived via the floo in the late afternoon. Remus was still working in his dungeon when the other slave burst through the doors, a frantic look on her face.

‘Hermione, what’s wrong?’ Remus immediately attended to her. She was stressed, her pulse beating quickly under his fingers on her wrist. ‘Did you do it? Did you buy the heartstring?’

She gave a strange head movement, both shaking and nodding.

‘I did something very stupid.’ She whispered.

She withdrew a wooden box from her robe and pushed it towards him. Remus opened it to see the thin wires of dragon heartstring.

‘You did it.’ He said with wonder.

He looked up at her. Hermione was still acting strangely, pacing this way and that across the dungeon.

‘Did someone see you?’ Remus asked, his concern growing. Hermione shook her head, brown curls tumbling across her shoulders. ‘Then what happened? What’s wrong?’

She shoved something sharply at his chest but he didn’t grab it fast enough. Something wooden clattered on the ground between them.

Hermione Granger had bought a wand.


	8. Chapter 8

‘You bought a wand.’ Remus breathed.

‘I know.’ Hermione gasped and Remus stooped to pick up the offending slim piece of wood. ‘I don’t know what happened. I went to Knockturn Alley and there was this lady selling wands and it was like there was shouting in my head and the next thing I knew I was giving her coin.’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘I’m going to be in so much trouble.’ She looked straight at him, resolute. ‘We have to destroy it.’

Remus looked up from where he was cradling the wand with both hands. ‘What? No!’

‘Remus we have to!’ She shouted. ‘This is far beyond brewing potions. This is treason. If this gets out we won’t just get 50 lashes and the Cruciatus. Either it burns or we do.’

‘Not one slave in a thousand years has had the opportunity you have now.’ Remus said. ‘Hermione, you can do magic!’

Hermione straightened. ‘If anyone is going to be stupid enough to do magic with a wand it’s going to be you, Remus. You’ve been trained at Hogwarts. I don’t know any spells, I would be killed for treason.’

‘So would I.’

‘Yes, but you have more to gain and less to lose.’

Her ruthlessness threw him off guard momentarily. He thought they had become friends, but still her keen survival instincts kept her attuned to doing anything possible to continue living, even if it meant throwing him to the dogs.

‘No, no.’ Remus muttered. ‘It takes a lot of skill to be able to wield someone else’s wand, and it’s very dangerous. I couldn’t even borrow James’ wand for a simple cleaning spell without it backfiring half the time. It has to be your own. How did you even get it?’

‘The vendor said they were wands from deceased estates, and that some witches like having a spare on hand in case of emergencies. It belonged to some spinster from the countryside.’ She gasped and started laughing hysterically. ‘So I bought a useless wand. I’m going to be killed for a wand that doesn’t even work!’

‘You said it called to you?’ Remus asked.

‘Like a... warmth in my mind.’

‘Then it does work. That’s what it felt like for me when I got my wand.’ He pressed it into her hands. The same tingling sensation of warmth travelled up her arm.

‘What happened to yours?’ Hermione asked.

‘They snapped it in half and burnt it, I assume.’ Remus said. ‘They couldn’t imagine a slave with a wand.’ He raised his eyebrows pointedly at her. Hermione immediately felt embarrassed at how easy the wand fit in her hand.

‘How did the vendor even sell to me? She should be imprisoned or killed.’ Hermione

Remus frowned in thought. ‘You’re right, she would never have made the sale if she thought you were a slave.’

‘I had my scarf up.’ Hermione said, absentmindedly touching the offending garment.

Remus nodded, then cocked his head. ‘And you have an affect about you.’ At her sharp glare he hastily added, ‘you don’t act like a slave. You’re... powerful. Determined. Anyway, the wand chooses the witch. It must have been unthinkable to her for a slave to be chosen.’

Both pairs of eyes fell to the wand in her hand. His voice scratchy, Remus said, ‘Well, give it a wave.’

Hermione refused to feel hopeful as she raised the wand.

Red and gold sparks danced from the wand like little birds, they illuminated the dungeon, and chased each other freely before they faded away, leaving sunspots in her eyes.

‘The wand chooses the witch.’ Remus murmured.

Her heart swelled within her chest. It felt right, it felt good, like everything was finally slipping into place when it was previously pulled apart and held there with hooks. With a wand in her hand and being named a witch, she felt whole even though she never knew she was fractured.

The world around her tilted on an angle. With her own self righted for the first time, the world itself felt distorted and wrong. Here she was, brandishing a wand that recognizes her as a witch, wearing a collar and hiding in the dungeon where her best friend slept on the stone floor.

For the first time Hermione danced with the idea that she could be the centre of her own world. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to cower under her Masters and bend herself to fit their world.

The world was wrong.

‘I want to learn.’ She said. Her grip on the wand tightened. ‘I want to learn magic.’

A beautiful smile stretched across Remus’ face. ‘And I want to teach you. Everything I know.’

* * *

They sat face to face on the floor of the dungeon in the dead of night, long after their Masters had retired. Between them lay the wand, and to the right Remus had placed a single lit candle. They couldn’t allow any more attention to be drawn to them.

The words spoken into that dark space were filled with importance.

‘But the Trace, the Ministry will find out that you helped me.’

‘Well...’ Remus’ smile turned sheepish. ‘James, Sirius and I, we did some research into the Trace in first year. We were trying to find a loophole, so we could work on advanced magic during the holidays. It’s fascinating... the Trace functions automatically on all magic users from birth. It doesn’t discriminate – full bloods, mudbloods, half breeds – it recognizes and reports on all magic performed by magic folk up until their seventeenth birthday.’

‘And I’m not seventeen anymore.’ Hermione said.

Remus gave a sardonic smile. ‘I haven’t been seventeen for a long time.’

‘Why seventeen?’

‘It is when a wizard becomes of age, able to be held responsible for his actions, leave school and own slaves.’

‘So the Trace won’t trigger for me?’ Hermione said, part way between confidence and uncertainty.

‘Only one way to find out.’ Remus squared his shoulders. ‘Something simple, I think, to start.’

Hermione looked down at the wand between them. ‘Something simple.’ She took the wand in her hand.

Remus felt his way through the dim dungeon to the wood pile and reached into the stack of kindling. He pulled out a thin, light twig and returned to where Hermione was seated on the floor. With shaking hands he placed it between them.

‘You said your first magical action was to float away, right?’

‘A massive dog was chasing me.’

‘I’ll try not to be offended.’ Remus said dryly. ‘So, you should find this simple: the levitation charm. We learnt it in first year. Now, you have to understand, the words, the wand and the will, they all work together. You have to know what you want, say the right words in line with that thought, and move your wand in concert.’

‘Well I want the twig to float.’

‘You want it to lift.’ Remus corrected, bringing his hand up to demonstrate. ‘The floating charm is more complex and not nearly as effective.’

‘So there’s a difference.’ Hermione said, determination coming into her eyes as she grappled with new subject matter.

‘Yes, there is a lot of nuance in how magic interacts with the physical world. Quite often there will be a group, or a family, of spells which achieve a similar result, but one may be more effective or more appropriate for your purpose.’

Hermione looked amused. ‘Mr Lupin, you hardly need to lecture me on the importance of a varied vocabulary.’

‘I shall endeavour to remember that, Miss Granger.’ He returned with a teasing smile. ‘It is possible to be a decent witch or wizard without understanding the nuance of the magic, but they would never achieve greatness.’ Remus met her eyes and there was tenderness there. ‘And I believe you can become great. Here.’ He reached out his hand and wrapped it around hers. ‘Swish and flick.’

He guided her hand through the motion and she repeated it.

‘No, smaller movements, we’re just working with a twig, not a block of stone. It should be more in the wrist than the elbow.’ Remus’ long fingers slid along her hand to encircle her delicate wrist. The pad of one of his fingers pressed against her racing pulse. He rolled her wrist around then withdrew his hand, touching his fingers along her tight grip on the wand. ‘Relax.’

Hermione released a shaky breath.

‘Swish and flick. I want the twig to lift.’ She murmured, repeating the action. ‘And the words?’

Remus’ lips parted. For the first time since he was a boy he uttered the words of an incantation. ‘_Wingardium leviosa_.’

With a carefully stilled hand, Hermione repeated the words, matching the intonation murmured in the still dungeon.

Remus made a noise of approval. ‘Are you ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’ Hermione released a slow, shuddering breath, then inhaled sharply. ‘_Wingardium leviosa_.’

The twig lifted. It rose off the ground with slow, lurching movements. With Hermione pointing her wand at the stick it kept lifting until it was flying over their heads.

A bubbling laugh burst out of Hermione and she threw her arms around Remus’ neck, hugging him tightly. His stupefied wonder broken, Remus grinned widely and put an arm around her back to press her close, his eyes still tracking the twig as it danced through the air.

‘I did it. I did it.’ Hermione breathed, then kissed him several times on the cheek. ‘I did it!’

‘You did it.’

Remus squeezed her tightly once as he reached up and snagged the twig out of the air. One attempt wouldn’t be good enough. She needed practice. But as soon as they broke apart and he placed it on the ground, the twig lifted up again, even without Hermione pointing her wand at it.

Hermione’s eyes widened. Remus was a little in awe.

‘You’re incredible.’ He said. Then he kissed her on the lips.

With Hermione startled, the charm broke and the twig clattered to the ground.

‘Sorry.’ Remus said, ducking his head. ‘I needed to surprise you into dropping the spell.’

‘Oh.’ She was still beaming, her shoulders drawing up like a schoolgirl.

‘You should cast it again. You need practice.’

‘Remus, I am not sleeping tonight. I’m going to spend the whole night casting spells.’ Hermione said firmly. ‘And if the Ministry executes me in the morning then at least it will have been worth it. You don’t have to worry about me getting more practice.’

‘And if they don’t?’

Hermione cast her eyes about, still smiling. ‘Then I’ll keep performing magic until they do. I might never sleep again.’ She met his eyes. ‘I’ve never been so happy. What other spells do you remember?’

‘Something a bit harder?’ Remus teased. He tapped his knee as he thought. ‘Here, this one is a conjuring spell. It’s a form of transfiguration, but it’s actually... Sorry. All the theory is coming back to me, but it’s not important.’

‘Honestly, Remus.’ Hermione scoffed. ‘If you think I’m not interested in the theory then you don’t know me at all. But in this case, I do suppose I am quite eager to attempt the practical aspects.’

‘It’s a fire making spell.’ Remus explained, gathering a few more twigs to use as kindling.

‘Is that dangerous?’

‘Probably.’

Hermione stared at him, and he laughed.

‘We have water.’ He said. ‘And if something does get burnt it’s not hard to believe that an ordinary fire got a little out of control.’

‘I never let anything out of my control.’ Hermione said.

‘Then you’ll have to use the spell on just this wood and nothing else.’ Remus said.

‘Alright.’ Hermione nodded. ‘What’s the wand movement?’

‘A flick up and down, as if you were drawing a flame in the air. Here, like this.’ Remus demonstrated with her, wrapping a hand around her own again. It was the best way to understand in the dim light. Her eyesight wasn’t as keen as his. ‘Yes, but much faster.’

‘And the words?’

‘_Incendio_.’

With a vicious flick of the wand, Hermione murmured. ‘_Incendio_.’

Orange flames burst from the tip of her wand and engulfed the bundle of sticks. They caught fire quickly, and the heat burned through the measly fuel.

‘This is incredible!’ Hermione exclaimed. ‘Pass me that log.’

He did so, and Hermione added it tenderly to the fire. To her great surprise the log was taken easily, crackling away quickly and illuminating the entire dungeon. The fire was already burning at a heat like a fire that had been burning all night.

‘I would never have to worry about kindling or matches or tinder boxes again.’ Hermione was dazzled. ‘I could just set up the fireplaces in the Masters rooms, have them ready and then at any moment when the Masters request it I could light them with magic. I wouldn’t even have to carry the wood up 5 flights of stairs, I could lift it with the other spell and-’

Her face changed and Remus read it in her features.

‘Which begs the question,' he voiced her thoughts, 'if you could do chores with magic, why don’t the Masters do it themselves?’

‘I could be so much more productive if the Masters could be responsible for some of the housekeeping.’ Hermione said, bewildered. ‘I could bring in more money from the fields.’

‘They aren’t responsible.’ Remus refuted. ‘That’s why they own you.’

‘Well they own you, too.’ Hermione replied.

‘Exactly.’ Remus spat, so loud in the quiet dungeon. ‘We’re slaves, but why? They don’t need us to light their fires and carry their loads. They could do it themselves just by pointing a stick.’

‘They get off on it.’ Hermione said quietly, sick to her stomach. She dropped the wand to the ground and huddled closer to the small fire she had created with her own words. She remembered her training at the Ministry and in the House of Black. She remembered cleaning boots with her tongue and carrying loads far too heavy for an eight year old. She remembered the hours and hours she spent beating rugs to get them clean and the blisters on her hands from scrubbing the floors. She remembered everything she laboured to do while a Master stood and watched.

Remus swallowed down the bile in his throat. His own slavery had far less direct contact with the Masters, most of his orders were relegated by a slave taskmaster.

He gave her silence.

For the next few hours he carefully fed wood into the fire, never prompting her to speak. The night stretched on, inching closer to sunrise and when Hermione might be taken away for her illicit use of magic.

Only an hour before sunrise, Hermione spoke.

‘You once said that I didn’t just have magical awareness. You called me magical. Do you still believe that?’

‘I do.’

‘I think I’m starting to believe you. But believing I’m magical means that I accept that I was stolen from my family so the Ministry could fill my head with lies. The Trace works until seventeen, right? Long enough for every magical being to manifest and be trained and sold on and never attempt magic again. They stole me because I am magical and they wanted the Mudblood to be scared of magic. But they don’t know me.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Remus asked.

‘You know how dedicated I am.’

‘Dedicated, yes, though I would use the word ruthless.’

‘If I pick up that wand again, I’m not going to be content with just learning magic for myself.’ Hermione said. ‘Magic is my birthright, it’s not retribution.’

‘Your retribution?’

‘I’m going to learn everything. I will get you a wand, or I’ll teach you wandless magic. I will teach every slave I know that magic belongs to us, just as much as it belongs to the Masters.’ Her eyes shining with determination, Hermione’s teeth were bared as she declared her mission. ‘Is there a spell to open locks?’ She put the wand down as she asked. She had no desire to accidentally cast a spell.

Remus’ head cocked. ‘Yes.’

‘Tell me.’

‘_Alohamora_.

Hermione touched her fingertips to the collar at her neck.


	9. Chapter 9

The Ministry did not come for her. Their theory about the Trace was correct. She had practiced the unlocking charm on a chest to which she had the key, over and over again, but couldn’t bring herself to try it on the collar around her neck. It was too risky. If the spell worked, then her magic would be outed to the Weasley family and she would have to flee immediately.

Hermione began the new day with a little make up around her eyes masking the dark shadows that came from only a few hours sleep over the last two nights. She worked diligently despite her tiredness, and although both the twins noticed the change in her behaviour, her work was as flawless as ever and they had no reason to complain. The pure joy she had felt when she used magic to lift the twig for the first time was turned to bitter loss and regret as she realised how much was denied to her and the work that was ahead.

Remus, however, had two nights of sleeplessness. He had experienced pain of the full moon under the effects of the Wolfsbane potion for the first time, followed by the night of remembering and teaching magic to Hermione. His work did not fare so well under his tiredness, and in serving lunch, his hold on the large teapot slipped and tea flooded Masters Ron and George’s plates.

‘Hermione!’ Ron roared.

‘Master.’ Hermione attended to the incident immediately, clearing away plates, mopping up tea and replacing the food. She did not apologise for Remus. She was not in the habit of taking responsibility for others failure.

‘What’s wrong with you, werewolf?’ Ginny asked. She was still glowing from her Quiddich win yesterday morning and had barely stopped talking about the match all morning.

‘I’m sorry, Mistress.’ Remus replied, bowing to her. Hermione cringed to see he was giving her the bow intended for the matriarch of the family. ‘I believe the full moon-’

‘Hermione take the werewolf away and discipline him.’ Molly said sternly. ‘He’s causing an awful ruckus.’

‘Yes, my Mistress.’ Hermione obeyed, handing the rag to Nippy to continue cleaning up Remus’ mess.

In the hallway outside the dining room Hermione took his arm and marched the taller man all the way to a door he had never entered before.

‘It won’t be the Cruciatus, will it?’ Remus asked, real fear entering his voice.

‘No.’ Hermione said. ‘I am responsible for your punishment.’

Remus wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. If she was in charge of his punishment the Weasleys must not use curses, however the thought of looking at her lovely face while she wielded the lash was just as horrifying.

She pulled open the door and shoved Remus into the room.

His jaw fell open. Books upon books, piled high, crammed into corners, three layers deep on every bookshelf in the small library. Unable to stop himself, Remus picked up the first book he could touch, a very battered textbook with a title he remembered some of the seventh year students at Hogwarts reading. He hadn’t touched a book, much less read a book, in so many years that he had forgotten. He thumbed through the pages, his heart leaping for joy at the diagrams and images there, catching glimpses of phrases that opened up the world of magic to him again.

‘Your punishment, Mr. Lupin.’ Hermione announced.

Remus snapped the book shut and let it fall back onto the pile. He turned to her, arms folded behind his back.

‘I know it’s not a very big library. It’s tiny compared to the beautiful library in House Black.’ Hermione’s hands stretched out in front of her as she remembered the tall, carefully maintained bookshelves. ‘I don’t think I could have read them all if I tried.’ Her hands dropped. ‘Anyway, you had better get started.’

Remus cocked his head and stared at her.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Hermione asked.

‘The lash, to be honest.’ Remus said.

‘There will be no lash today.’ Hermione said. ‘I will expect more from you in the future, but today your error was because you were tired and untrained. You are already physically impaired and the punishment should not exacerbate the crime.’

‘Alright.’ Remus said, warily.

‘Your punishment will be to categorize and inventory every book in this library.’ Hermione announced. ‘I want this room cleaned and orderly, with the titles of each book recorded on parchment for my perusal. You must be thorough, so I expect you to spend the entire day in here. You will not be interrupted.’

‘Hermione, this isn’t a punishment. This is a dream.’ Remus breathed.

But Hermione continued on, unperturbed. ‘I will also expect you to make decisions regarding the importance of each book. Duplicates, different editions, schoolbooks and the like, these may be packed away and stored in the dungeon.’

Remus’ eyes had widened as she spoke. Genius. She was a genius. She was locking him away when he was tired so he could rest in one of the armchairs if he needed. She gave him access to the privileged and restricted area of the library under the guise of punishment. He could secret away books and read them in his dungeon. Already he recognized a few volumes from his schooling days. To be able to open them again, to read the magical words and remember the best time of his life...

‘Yes, Miss Granger.’ He said, playing the dutiful slave.

Her expression did not change, but somehow she communicated that she was glad he caught the nature of the game.

‘Nippy will bring your lunch in 1 hour.’ She said. _Don’t sleep until after you’ve eaten and won’t be caught_, she meant.

‘Yes, Miss Granger.’

‘I will return after the Masters have retired for the night.’

‘Yes, Miss Granger.’

* * *

She came to him that night, completely exhausted. Remus had taken three short naps in the reading armchair, but Hermione was not given such a luxury. Even with just the daily management of the house and generating the plan for the creation and distribution of the Wolfsbane potion, she was barely functioning by the end of the night. But with the Weasley family retired to bed she could finally find her way to the library.

Hermione collapsed on the floor at the foot of one of the empty armchairs. With her eyes half closed she patted a hand across the seat until she touched a pillow which she pulled down and tucked under her folded knees. She leant her head against the armchair.

Remus turned from where he was seated at the desk, quill still in his hand, to observe her.

She was seated on the floor by the armchair, eyes closed, head tilted, as though she was kneeling at by the feet of some invisible man and resting her head on his knee. The position caused a feeling of abject horror rise in Remus’ throat, but her expression gave him pause. She was serene, safe, even comfortable, in this position of subservience. Her shoulders were relaxed and curled in. Long hair fell in frizzy curls over her chest which rose and fell with deep sighs. One hand fell to the floor as though she was reaching out to touch the ankle of the man who was not there.

Of course. She still loved him, still longed for her old Master, for Sirius. The Wolfsbane project had been nothing more than a diversion from her greater goal – to discover Sirius Black’s fate and avenge him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Remus turned back to his parchment and continued transcribing the titles of the books.

After twenty minutes, a crease formed between Hermione’s eyebrows and she begrudgingly sat upright. She rubbed her hands across her face and mumbled, ‘I am far too exhausted.’

‘You need to sleep.’ Remus commented.

‘I will.’ Hermione said. ‘But tell me what you found.’

Remus blew gently on the parchment to dry the ink, and then showed it to her. ‘A list of duplicates and unessentials that would not be missed in storage.’

Hermione took the list and blinked at it.

‘How far did you get?’ She asked.

‘I’ve only sorted about half of the books here,’ Remus began, ‘but I think-’

‘No, here.’ Hermione said, pointing at the list. ‘How far did you get through the list?’

Remus frowned, not quite understanding her. ‘All those books are here.’

‘How many did you read?’

‘Read?’ Remus said. A white flash of fear shot through him. He had been so careful, so paranoid. He had pressed himself into corners and presented his back to the closed door as he hid the open books. He’d only glanced, really, only flicked through the sacred pages of a child’s textbook. His eyes had skimmed over the words quickly – Remus had always been a quick reader – and his mind lit up with the memories of Hogwarts. The hallways stretched and twisted in front of him, his book strap heavy over his shoulder. Holding a quill in ink stained fingers. Looking up through a mop of light brown hair at the backs of James and Sirius as they laughed in the next row in Charms. The feel of magic pouring from out of his fingertips.

When his wand was broken Remus had to pretend to forget everything he had learnt at Hogwarts and in his home. The knowledge was buried so far and so deep that no master after his training knew who he once was. He almost forgot himself.

He forced himself to dismiss thoughts of punishment. This was Hermione, his partner in crime. She would understand. She had to.

‘I read a little.’ Remus murmured, ashamed that his treachery was found out. Hermione huffed and he rushed to continue. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you have nothing to teach me tonight?’ Hermione said, disappointment evident in her tone.

Remus frowned. ‘I thought you wanted to read them.’

‘Remus.’ She looked him in the eye and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I wake up before the Masters and I go to sleep after them. I work hard every minute, because every second that my work isn’t satisfactory, I increase my chances of being sold to another House, and I won’t be the Head Slave there. I can’t go back to only working pleasure. I won’t.’ Hermione closed her eyes and tilted her head back, a life of servitude weighing heavily on her shoulders. ‘I am tired all the time. I haven’t read a book in two years.’

It was this last admission that showed Remus just how strung thin Hermione was. During their months working together on the Wolfsbane potion, their love of books seemed to be the only thing they could agree upon. Between the two of them they had a library of books stored carefully in their minds. Whenever she had the opportunity to retell a favoured story, Hermione’s eyes lit up and she bubbled with joy.

Still kneeling on the floor, her head resting back on the armchair, she looked despondent.

‘We can’t both stay up all night doing-’

A creak from the ancient building silenced him. They both looked at the ceiling, terrified for a full minute. No other sounds of shuffling feet were forthcoming.

They looked at each other.

‘We’re going to have to be smart about this.’ Remus said.

Hermione smiled at him, her toothy grin full of camaraderie. ‘We don’t know how to be anything else.’

Remus returned it with his own smile, one that was fonder than he was willing to admit. ‘I only have a second year education, and you are the brightest witch of this age.’

She flushed under the praise. ‘I can’t teach myself. I don’t have the time.’ She reminded him.

His fingers tapped on the pile of books on the desk. ‘I’m to be your teacher, then?’

‘Yes.’ Hermione stood, and pressed the parchment with the list of books to Remus’ chest.

‘So learn, Professor Lupin.’

* * *

They slept and worked and learnt. They agreed on sacrificing two hours of sleep each night. One of the hours they spend together late at night, with Hermione learning all she could from Remus. Hermione would stay awake an extra hour practicing spells over and over again in the dungeon while Remus slept in a tight ball. After her hour was up she would silently go to her room in the slave quarters and collapse on her squeaky bed. An hour before sunrise Remus would open his eyes, light a candle and bring a textbook very close to his face.

They developed cover stories and contingencies for all situations. Decades of slavery benefitted their scheme. They were so used to hiding their true feelings.

At Hermione’s insistence, Remus focused his studies on the more practical uses of magic. There wouldn’t be much use for Astronomy or Arithmancy if they were going to enact their plan of escape. Duelling work, however, was certainly necessary.

‘Are you ready?’ Remus asked, rolling his wrist and twirling his chosen weapon in preparation.

He had brought his small axe, suitable only for chopping dying branches off the trees in the orchard. Sharp enough to be dangerous, light enough that it wouldn’t cut too deep.

The instant Hermione nodded that she was ready, he acted. He charged at her, axe raised–

‘_Expelliarmus!_’

The axe was struck from his hand and thrown across the dungeon. Remus expected that, and didn’t let it stop him, he kept his forward motion then–

‘_Stupefy!_’ Hermione yelled with a sharp flick of her wrist.

That knocked him backwards, flat on his back. His eyes were rolling but he wasn’t quite unconscious.

After she helped him sit up, Remus groaned out, ‘Not bad. Not perfect, but not bad.’

‘I have to be able to stun.’ Hermione said, gritting her teeth at the failure.

‘I look forward to your improvement.’ Remus replied dryly.

‘I only wish I could learn memory charms.’ Hermione bemoaned. ‘It would be so helpful in planning an escape.’

‘Or your first attempt could be less than perfect and I’d end up as a blubbering mess.’ Remus said with a wry smile.

Then Hermione brought up a familiar sore talking point. ‘And the Cruciatus? I’ll need it to.’

‘I’m not doing that.’

Hermione looked to the heavens, ‘so I’ll practice on a rat! I know the words, but you have to teach me the wand movement!’

‘I won’t!’ Remus thundered. ‘You know the words, you want wand, but do you have the will?’

Hermione pressed her lips together.

‘You have to mean it.’ Remus continued. ‘You have to _want_ to cause pain, and... and enjoy it. I don’t want to see that happen.’

‘And if I didn’t desire to see pain?’ Hermione asked, mind ticking as always.

‘It wouldn’t work.’

‘Even if it was a Just punishment?’

‘To cast the Cruciatus is never just.’

Hermione didn’t reply. The Cruciatus was a fact of life prior to her station at the Weasley’s. It was used throughout the Masters houses as a staple of punishment for all levels of infractions. She’d always thought it cold, clinical punishment. Necessary to teach and train. If what Remus said was true, they weren’t doing it out of justice or to teach her, they wanted her, and all the other slaves they tortured, to hurt. Because they liked it.

‘I think I’ve had enough training for tonight.’ She said. ‘I’m going to go to sleep early.’

Remus nodded his understanding and took the wand from her. During the day they kept it stored amongst the kindling, hidden in plain sight. Managing the firewood was Remus’ duty, and no one argued about that particular menial job.

* * *

They steered away from Duelling spells for a while, practicing instead some basic incantations. Somehow the extra hour of sleep Hermione got the previous night made her only more tired. After her third failed attempt at lighting a rock on fire, Remus scolded her for her lack of attention and she bit back at him.

‘You think I wouldn’t spend all my time here if I could? I don’t have time, Remus, I’m tired. I’m overworked.’

‘I know.’ Remus returned. ‘That’s why they make us do it. That’s why they work us hard because we can’t think or read or plan if we’re too busy working.’

Hermione dropped down onto her usual chair of an overturned wooden bucket and put her head in her hands. Her tiredness was over taking her. ‘Is there a... oh, what would it be called, a spell that achieves the opposite?’

‘A counter-spell?’

‘Yes, is there a counter-spell to _Incendio_?’ Hermione asked.

‘There is.’

‘Today Master Ron called me in to reduce the fire in his bedroom. Why didn’t he just do it himself?’

‘They’ve grown weak.’ Remus said, voice dripping. ‘They don’t respect magic, any more than they respect the slaves that do the work for them. They’ve forgotten the power it is they hold.’

The damp and dark dungeon where they shared these treasonous words felt more like freedom than even the open fields of crops surrounding the Burrow.

‘That reminds me.’ Remus said, going to his packed away stack of precious books. Hermione was worn out, and in no fit state to practice her magic. She needed something to re-ignite her passion. Books and knowledge always seemed to do the trick. When in doubt, go to the library.

He found what he was looking for and passed it to her, taking a seat on the cold stone himself. Absentmindedly, Hermione pointed her wand at the small candle and muttered ‘_engorgio_’ so the flame leapt up and brightened the room and illuminated the small book she was holding.

It was a child’s text book. Hogwarts: A History.

‘Go to the page I marked.’

Hermione shot him a look, one that re-told the argument they had about marking books and leaving a trail, however tenuous, that they were not merely packing them away.

‘The History of the Houses.’ She read aloud. Then her eyes darted quickly across the pages. Remus stayed at her knee while she read.

Certain phrases jumped out of her, “the benefits of purging the school of people unworthy of practicing magic”, “a fierce argument broke out amongst the founders”, “Salazar’s argument prevailed.”

She reached the end of the chapter and closed the book, her hand splayed over the front cover. Through the lies of propaganda and sanitization for the children, she could see glimmers of the truth.

‘We were so close.’ She murmured. ‘One argument lost instead of won, and history could have been different. Mudbloods, half-bloods, maybe even monsters could have studied at Hogwarts, but they were too scared, and they gave in to Salazar.’

‘And from then, history unravels.’ Remus continued. ‘Those that were denied education in their magical arts had magic that was unpredictable. They were labelled dangerous. Slavery was instituted to... “take care” of them, protect them. And from England this thinking went to the world on ships and trades.’

‘But they wanted Mudbloods educated.’ Hermione said, returning to the book. ‘These other three. That means that they must have been educated for a time. All mudbloods and half-bloods can learn to control their magic. We can use this history against them.’

‘We can’t teach them from a dungeon.’ Remus said, giving a slight smile at her renewed determination.

With a curving gesture, Hermione pointed her wand at the rock and proclaimed ‘_Avifors_’ and it turned into a tiny grey and red robin. It looked quite unsettled with being transformed into existence, and hopped around on the ground for a moment, pecking at the dirt. Its confused expression pulled a laugh from Hermione.

‘It’s kind of fun, isn’t it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Breaking the rules.’

He couldn’t help but return the grin. ‘I am a terrible influence on you.’


	10. Chapter 10

The full moon approached. Alongside their clandestine lessons they still had work to do on the potion. The preparation for the Dragon Heartstring was delicate work, requiring a fine hand and precise measurements. But, so certain were they of their work, they made excess to be sold at the shop as soon as possible, vials marked with seals. In the week leading up to the full moon Remus had to ingest a full goblet of the disgusting brew. Hermione teased him as she administered it, and he grouched about being the experimental punching bag.

The fateful night arrived. Hermione was even given special dispensation during the afternoon from Mistress Molly to compensate for the sleep she would lose monitoring the werewolf.

It started the same way that every full night had passed since he had been bought. Hermione huddled at the top of the stairs into the dungeon. Every month Remus asked her not to look, he didn’t want her to see him transform.

Even with her head turned to the side and buried in her robes, the screeching was awful and loud, the howling of pain as his bones and skin stretched and broke. Hermione absentmindedly stroked her collar, listening keenly for when it was done, or if something had gone wrong with their Wolfsbane potion. It was painfully long, but then it was over. He was transformed.

Descending the stairs, Hermione eyed carefully the line of chalk that circled the creature, and the layers of chains across all four of its legs.

The monster watched her carefully.

Something in her wanted to get down to the level of the werewolf, to see it eye to eye, so she did, sitting on the cold ground.

Then, the test.

‘Remus?’

Unbelievably, the werewolf nodded. Hermione released a tense breath.

‘It worked. Can you move at all?’

Bound as he was, he could do little more than move his head or beat his tufted tail against stones, but he wriggled as much as he could to prove the improvements in the potion.

She ran a few more tests on him, testing his memory and reading and aggression. Drops of her blood splashed on the stones didn’t turn him mindless again, and even with a plate with a raw steak pushed into range was left untouched until Hermione assured him he could eat.

‘I want to release your chains.’ She said. ‘Would that be crazy?’

His eyes indicated that it would be, wide and terrified, but Remus was always more cautious, more condemning of his condition. She reached out a hand, careful to use the back of her hand so she could pull away should those fearsome jaws snap at her.

It took one false start, then another, Remus’ head pressed against the wall, but then she touched him, and soon her hand was buried in the soft fur.

It was familiar to the touch, she realised, at first couldn’t tell why. Then it came to her, the pelt, the scrap of loincloth that Remus wore for his first couple of months at the Weasley household. She had forgotten that it had been taken from him one full moon, that someone must have held the werewolf frozen under a curse while sharp knives dug under the fur and skinned him alive. She hated the Masters even more.

The fur was soft, and much thicker than she’d anticipated. Her hand disappeared into it. His flesh was warm underneath and he whimpered as she stroked him. Emboldened, she brought her hand closer to his face, even under his snout to fiddle with the clasp of the extra collar binding him to the wall.

Remus refused to look at her, his amber eyes squeezed shut. But the chains fell away, one after the other, and still the werewolf was controlled.

‘You might as well go for a walk around the dungeon.’ Hermione said. ‘We need to test the limitations of the potion.’

The werewolf huffed but lumbered to his feet. He was massive. He towered over her as she sat on the floor, and it made her more scared than she was when she first touched him. He could knock her over and pin her to the ground with one paw.

But he didn’t. He slowly paced the length of the room, bushy tail dragging in the dirt, then turned and looked at her, his expression reading _happy now_?

The very human and familiar expression on his snout made Hermione snort with laughter.

‘Alright then, come here.’

Remus walked back to her, then, as innocent as a dog, walked around in a circle before laying down beside her. She laughed again and threw a hand onto his back.

‘We really need to perform more tests.’

Remus huffed, his snout resting on his paws, to show what he thought about that.

‘Oh, but can you imagine!’ she said, feeling only slightly ridiculous for arguing with a transformed werewolf. ‘We could finally understand a werewolf’s jaw power, speed, agility. Think of all the data we could amass!’

His eyes slowly blinked, like a predator at home in his den, and he lifted his massive head to lay it on her lap. The weight of it pinned her, but she found herself petting him, and rubbing with the fur behind his ears. His eyes said to her _I’m tired, Hermione_, and her body agreed with him.

Before long, they were asleep, the long nights of training and studying caught up with them. Hermione never got a better night’s sleep than with her head pillowed on that great beast.

* * *

They came to in the early morning. They both recalled the transformation as the moon set, Hermione stroking his head as his bones re-adjusted, but it tired him out so much that they soon fell back asleep, curled in each other’s arms.

The dungeon doors screeched as they opened and they bolted apart. Remus dove for his clothes and Hermione put some distance between them and fixed her appearance.

Mistress Molly descended the stairs and surveyed them. Hermione felt more scrutinized and ashamed from the crime of innocently sleeping together than any sexual infraction she’d ever committed.

‘Well, I’d say it looks successful in here.’ She said, a fixed smile on her face. ‘Upstairs, Hermione. Arthur wants to go through the accounts before we release the potion.’

Hermione bowed and excused herself, while Molly eyeballed Remus.

‘Did it work?’ She asked.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Any problems?’

‘No, Mistress.’

‘Good.’ She nodded curtly. ‘See Fred and George, they have a special task for you today.’

* * *

Hermione stood at attention before Arthur Weasley in his study. It was a routine task of theirs, once a month, to go through the spending and earnings of the House Weasley. He appreciated her logical and clever thinking to make the money stretch while still maintaining the illusion of wealth.

Usually the patriarch was absentminded, trusting and bumbling, but this time he was unusually attentive.

‘And how did the full moon go last night? I didn’t hear any howls, so I assume either very good or very bad news.’

‘It went excellently, Master. The transformations themselves continue to be painful and tiring, though less so than previously seen, and the werewolf maintained full control of his faculties throughout the night, if a little tired.’

Arthur smiled at her, in between jotting something down on a page. ‘And his body?’

‘Healthy.’ She reported. ‘He is suitable for hard labour even this morning.’

She mentioned nothing of removing the chains and seeking comfort in each other.

He put down his quill and, for once, stopped and looked at her intently.

‘You have become quite fond of the werewolf, haven’t you?’ he stated.

‘No, Sir.’ The response was immediate, unquestionable. Practiced. Fear flooded her, but not shown. Had they been found out?

‘Good.’ His serious face switched quickly to a smile, and he picked up his quill again. ‘See that you don’t. With the potion flooding the market I expect the price of werewolves to go up exponentially. I intend to sell him at a profit, you understand?’

Hermione’s heart sank. ‘Yes, Master.’

‘You’re dismissed.’

‘Thank you, Master.’

* * *

How long would they have together? One more month? Two? How long before he was sold off and, like so many other slaves before him, disappeared completely from her life?

She couldn't do this without him.

Fred and George had already been busy advertising the werewolf potion, and there was a lot of buzz on the streets about it. They commanded both Hermione and Remus to be present at Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, to testify to its effectiveness and handle the crowd.

And indeed there was a crowd. At some points during the day the line stretched out the door. Many people bought the potion in vials that Hermione and Remus had prepared during the previous week, but most just came to hear the claims and gossip with each other about what they would do with a tamed werewolf.

Remus was on display, standing on a low pedestal for people to inspect and interrogate. His scars proved his history, and the lack of recent wounds proved the effectiveness of the potion. George was already advertising a horror themed _Night with a Werewolf_ event planned for the next full moon.

Hermione watched him all day, wanting to be close to him, wanting to speak plainly where the ears of the Masters couldn’t hear. She needed to tell him that they would be separated soon, that they needed to act soon to escape, revolt, whatever they had to do, but it had to be soon. They had to be together.

She was run off her feet, one of those awful days where too many things go wrong and there are too many pressures for even the most faithful of slaves to succeed. It was a good thing she had the extra sleep, she needed to be sharp all day.

Fred and George, masters of charms, had enchanted papers with the instructions for the potion, so that it could only be read by the purchaser, and any attempt to copy it would result in gibberish and a pointed insult. These they sold too, and all through the day Hermione kept an eye on Remus and, behind him, the door, waiting for the boy with the black dog familiar to return. What would she do if he didn't? Would her secret sale be found out? If interrogated about the Galleons how would she explain them? Her fingers touched the wand hidden deep in her robes. It was foolish to bring it with her, but after all her training she felt vulnerable without it, especially in the wider wizarding world.

‘Bloody brilliant you are, Hermione.’ Fred said with a congratulatory pat on the bum.

‘Look at the customers!’ preened George. ‘The most foot traffic we've had since last Christmas. A crowd draws a crowd.’

‘And they all buy Wildfire Whiz-bangs!’ Fred laughed.

Hermione smiled at them. ‘We've more than doubled our sales quota for the week.’

‘Aw, chin up, ’Mione!’ George tapped her under the chin, forcing her to look up at them. ‘We'll fly past the monthly quota by the end of the week at this rate! You might even earn a holiday!’

Hermione laughed along at the joke, cruel though it was at heart. She had done nothing but work since being sold into slavery. Only work, until her last few delicious weeks of study and training.

The day dragged on, without break for either slave working at the shop. Only once could Hermione get a glass of water to Remus during the 12 hours he stood there. The Master staring at him grumbled about lack of professionalism.

Eventually the crowds thinned and the sun set. The shop would close up soon.

‘Well, we're off!’ Fred and George bounded down the stairs to her at the register. ‘Pack up, clean up and lock up, there's a good girl.’

‘Yes, Master.’

George grabbed Remus by the arm and pulled him down off the pedestal. His legs wobbled and almost buckled after standing for so long.

‘We're taking Mr Handsome here back to the Burrow now.’ he said.

‘Got lots of new ideas we want to try!’ Fred added.

Hermione didn't look at Remus' face. Her slow realization over the last few months of how brainwashed she'd been, how she thought like the Masters and saw others as either worthless slaves or worthy Masters, it hindered her from being passionless about Remus' treatment.

There would be time to talk, later. She could conceal and endure. She always had.

Hermione bowed at the twins and they were gone with a loud crack.

The sun set, and Hermione graciously ushered the last customers from the store. As she stood at the entrance and watched the Alley, a slave boy emerged from the shadows. Her hand lingered on the sign as she flipped it to read CLOSED but she left the door slightly ajar. The boy approached, slid through the door and closed it behind him.

‘You're late.’ she said, feigning disinterest.

‘I've been watching the store all day.’ The boy said. ‘I thought it would be best to speak now. Are the Master’s gone?’

Hermione hummed and inclined her head. ‘Where is your Master's Familiar?’

The boy dropped his hand to his side, a habit from letting that shaggy dog sniff him.

‘He had to stay home today.’

Deeper into the confusing shop they went, and the boy dropped back the hood on his cloak, revealing messy dark hair. He wasn't really a boy at all, Hermione realized. Closer to her age than she’d thought, but he was short, and skinny, like most slaves, but his jaw was set in the manner of a young man. He seemed less desperate today than he was last month, when he came into her shop begging for her potion, perhaps because he was no longer under the scrutiny of the Familiar's dark eyes.

They walked into the back room of the shop, usually only occupied by Weasleys’ and leftover stock. It was a fitting place for a clandestine meeting.

‘You brought the parchment.’ Hermione said, letting fierce determination into her voice.

‘Yes, of course.’ The slave said urgently, pulling it from his robes. He laid it down on the desk and Hermione peered closely at it, checking it was identical to the one she had given him a month ago.

It would have been nice to make good use of her skills and mutter _incendio_ but instead she picked up the parchment and held it over the open flame of a candle. The parchment was reduced to ash.

‘It’s incredible, this potion you’ve created.’ The slave gushed. ‘And the new version is improved?’

‘Indeed.’ Hermione was unwilling to give him any more than necessary, fearful that any drop of information could give her many secrets away.

‘I’ll buy it.’ He said. ‘Properly this time.’

Hermione withdrew one of the charmed parchments and placed the slave’s palm across it. From her perspective nothing changed, but the slave gasped. With his free palm he dug within his robes and pulled out something from a chain around his neck. It was a pair of black, round glasses, and he held them to his face as he bent down to read the parchment.

‘Dragon Heartstring.’ He murmured. ‘I never would have guessed.’

‘And that’s why you’ll pay me for it.’ Hermione said. ‘Two hundred Galleons.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He didn’t flinch at the price. His glasses dropped back, hidden from view, but when he held out a purse, she noticed for the first time that his eyes appeared to strain when they looked at her. Perhaps he needed them for more than just reading, but he kept them concealed. Knowledge was power, she understood, and knowledge of weakness even more so. How many times had she hidden an illness or her period from her Masters? She would rather work twice as hard through any pain, rather than have them think she was weak. She took the purse and counted the coins on the table. When it was all settled she nodded at him.

‘Wonderful.’ He said, standing a little taller than she’d seen him do before. ‘It’s been great, meeting you, doing business with you, Hermione.’

It almost slipped past her, but she caught the name, un-given though it was.

‘How do you know my name?’ she demanded.

He didn’t back down, or try to explain or cover up calling her a name she never gave him.

‘You’re incredible.’ He said, smiling and calm. ‘And I’m sorry to have to do this to you.’

Her hand snuck inside her robes and she gripped her wand, nervous and scared.

The slave boy lifted something up, and it was a wand. He held his own wand and pointed at her head.

He begins to form words, ‘_Obli_-’

‘_Expelliarmus__!_’ Hermione shouted. Her wand was out and the spell cast before she could think. The young man’s wand flew across the room.

His face was frozen, in a mixture of shock, delight and confusion. ‘You’re not a slave?’

Her heart pound in her chest. ‘What are you?’ she demanded.

The collar around his neck ripped away in his hands. Fake. ‘The son of a free man.’ He declared. ‘You?’

‘No such luxury.’ She spat, her wand still trained on him.

He took a step and she gripped her wand tighter, threatening him with a look. She had no idea what she would cast if he came at her again.

‘Relax.’ He said. ‘I’m just getting my wand.’ He was intrigued with her, but somehow calm. Hermione had never been more unnerved.

Who was this man that hid in slave’s clothes and a collar and brandished a wand? She was jealous of his confidence, how he slid between roles.

He tapped his wand against his chin in thought. Hermione didn’t blink.

‘But how did-’ his thought was cut off as a noise came from the shop. They spun, and stood side by side, brandishing their wands at the door.

It came again, a sharp _tap tap_ of someone knocking on the window, and calling something out. Something about needing to buy a gift.

The man-who-is-not-a-slave looked back at Hermione, and with a loud crack, he was gone, and Hermione was alone.


End file.
